After the Kiss
by Paperfaces1
Summary: After the Kiss, what happened? In the hidden plot of ALW's 2004 movie, Christine pledges herself to Erik, who, in turn, must find a way to live in the world that has rejected him.
1. Chapter 1

"He has showed you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?"

(Micah 6: 8)

**After the Kiss**

**Chapter One**

Ash drifted through the dreary day and settled onto the snow. Heavy, incandescent smoke wafted from empty windows as crowds gathered to stare and gossip, some to boast of having been in the building when the chandelier crashed. Three urchins with smudged faces pelted across the square, followed by a watchman shaking his fist. Two children escaped his reach, the third knocked into a figure wrapped in a cloak, and bounced back into the watchman's hands. He twisted away, shouted imprecations at the motionless figure and sped into an alley behind her.

The watchman straightened, muttered after the boy and stopped to stare at the girl. Once he opened his mouth to speak, but the misery in her eyes stopped him. He turned back to walk the perimeter of the burned-out opera house, yet couldn't help but peer over his shoulder now and then. The girl didn't move.

When a young man approached her, touched her elbow and spoke to her, the watchman felt his heartache loosen. So she wasn't alone, he thought, and went on. But he watched the pair until his beat turned him around the corner of the building.

"Are you all right?" the young man asked.

The girl nodded, took a deep breath and turned to face him. "I'm fine."

"That boy hit you so hard. I thought—"

"Boy?" She glanced around. "Oh, they were running. Looters, I suppose, hoping to find lost purses or who knows what."

"Or perhaps the ghost."

"Don't, Raoul." She put her hand out as though to stop herself from falling. He took it and steadied her, then led her away.

"Christine, I'm sorry—I've been hearing gossip. I shouldn't have let you come with me. What was I thinking? It's too much, too soon."

She resisted his tug, staring over her shoulder at the ruined opera house. As if finally receiving the answer she'd been seeking, she nodded and allowed Raoul to guide her from its pull. "He's not there, anyway."

"You're sure of that?"

She nodded, and he sighed. She felt his eyes on her but couldn't make herself meet his gaze. She'd hurt him so much already, and he'd been nothing but good to her.

She let him help her into the carriage. He released her arm as soon as she regained her balance and her soul ached for his pain, though he attempted to hide it. At the moment, she couldn't respond. _Later_, she thought, and leaned against the seat. Her eyes closed, her heart dwelt once again in yesterday as the carriage joggled them over the cobbled street toward Raoul's home.

_No more ghost, _she thought. _Not in that opera house. He is but a man. _And she hadn't felt his presence since she'd left him the night before.

Twice she turned to Raoul to ask his thoughts; both times, her courage failed. She needed to address his pain before her own, and she hadn't the energy to do that.

Just as the carriage pulled up the drive, a bit of sunlight swam through the gloom, settled for an instant on Raoul's head, and vanished. The driver slowed the horses and Raoul reached once again to help Christine descend. She murmured her thanks and followed him inside.

"Madame wishes to see you as soon as is convenient, sir, mademoiselle," a voice said.

"Thank you, Henri." Raoul held out his arm to Christine as soon as the manservant had taken her cloak. "Are you ready to face my mother?"

Christine nodded, once again grateful for his strength.

"Christine, my love." The Comtesse held out her arms, and Christine ran to give her a hug, feeling for the first time that day a sense of ease. "First I am told you are still sleeping, and then that you are gone out with my son. Raoul, do you not know better than to take her out there?" She jerked her head, and her expression—that "out there" was such a dangerous and frightening place—made Christine laugh.

"It's good to see some life in you," Raoul's mother went on.

"Oh, Madame, did you think—" Christine hurried to sit next to the woman.

"I think you must be in shock, my dear. My son and I had quite a talk this morning."

Christine glanced at Raoul, who gave her a wry smile before seating himself on a nearby chair. "Maman, she says she is fine."

"My son, she is a woman. You would not understand."

Raoul looked down, and Christine brushed a tear away before either of them noticed. What was worse—her longing and worry, or her guilt? At the moment, neither Raoul nor her Angel could comfort her, nor could she comfort them.

"Christine, now, we must talk." The Comtesse patted her hand. "I have a plan to get you settled—"

"Settled? No!" Did she mean to force her into marriage with Raoul, even after the events of the previous night?

"Bah! You think I am heartless? I am all concern. This is why, as much as I love to have you here, I have made plans. Madame Giry came by this morning to see you—"

"Is she all right? And her daughter?"

"Oui. Both are fine, and they wish for you to stay with them. So, you will go, non? Propriety will be seen to, and you will be nearby."

Again Christine glanced at Raoul, but he'd turned away, resting his forehead on a supporting hand. He must want her gone, despite his care for her comfort that day. Her presence must bring him so much pain. "Yes, then. I will go."

The Comtesse nodded, her eyes shrewd. "This is well. And now, I must consult with my cook. Supper is in half an hour, I believe. You two—" she looked at Raoul, her expression sharp, "—have much to discuss."

She floated out, her chin held high, and Christine heard her faint cluck as she passed her son. He turned his head to watch her leave without seeming to move.

"Raoul," Christine began.

"I know, you're sorry. You never meant—"

"I didn't! You must know that, Raoul, I would never hurt you—I would not choose to. You have been all that is good and I—I have used you badly, but not with intent."

"Of course not."

"Don't be like this, Raoul. I am sorry; I did not mean to hurt you. Those are not empty words."

He stood to walk to the windows behind her. She twisted to watch him. "I know, Christine, and I am the one who must apologize. We are both at fault."

"No, not you—"

He laughed, the sound sour. "What, are we to argue over who is not at fault? My dear, I knew you loved him, long before I ever knew his reach. I thought I could woo you away."

Christine felt her spirit sag under the weight of his words. "But you're an honorable man."

"A man who jeopardized the woman he loves in order to win a foolish game."

"It wasn't a game."

"No." He turned back and once again sunlight haloed his hair before giving in to the smothering clouds. "You're right. The man—it was no game to save him. It is only the play for your heart that I treated as a game—something I could win."

"You might have—"

"Christine. Don't patronize me." He watched her for a moment before moving to sit across from her. "Maman is right. It's best you are not here, but I don't say this out of consideration for my own heart. Gossip will have you sleeping your way to whatever it is you wish to achieve if you stay. Madame Giry's is the best place."

"How will you—"

"And he'll know to find you there."

Startled, Christine stood. "Raoul—"

"What do you want me to say, Christine? That I don't love you? That I do not die inside each time I think of the way you touched him? We both love; you, at least, have hope."

He strode out of the room. Christine spent a moment trying to control the tears before she went to find his mother.

After arranging to move to the Giry household that evening, Christine gathered into a small bag her few things from the room where she'd slept that morning. From the windows she saw the sun break through for the third time. She leaned toward the pane and watched gold tint the clouds.

She would be months sorting her thoughts; years sorting her feelings; forever, perhaps, before she could forgive herself the hurt she'd inflicted on Raoul. But as she leaned against the casement, her cheek inches from the glass but still feeling its cold, peace filled her.

Peace—from where? From whom? It spread through her like the fire-glow of the sunset that filled the room. The flames in the grate paled as the true light swept over it and swallowed it. She hadn't cried for him all day, hadn't been able to. Now, tears poured down her face. And still she smiled. _Peace_, she thought. And,_ Angel._

He reached the end of the tunnel before his emotions slowed enough to allow him rest. He leaned against the rancid wall of the tunnel, staring out at the dawn breaking over the city. Even this far from the opera house he smelled the smoke and shuddered.

_Dear God, what have I done?_

The faint light on the horizon offered no answer. Sickness roiled in his stomach and he struggled to contain it, tasting remorse as bitter as anything Judas ever felt. He swallowed it and set his jaw. He would not give in, not again, not ever again—

_Dear God—_

The bile lost much of its acid and he could breathe once again. He sighed, nodding. He had forgotten, so soon, that he need not fight this on his own.

The panic abated enough that he pushed away from the wall and moved closer to the tunnel entrance. Ash weighed the mist with its gray filth. Beyond that, tenements crowded the light so that only a faint stirring of mist announced the dawn.

He could not crouch here in the tunnel forever. He must venture into the world. Panic washed over him. He countered each argument as best he could.

_I won't be arrested. No one saw me. _

_I can move among men without fear of reprisal._

Only when the morning light dimmed did he realize he'd covered half his face with his left hand. Without his mask, he felt exposed, as though mere air would rend the tender flesh. Swallowing again, he forced his arm to his side and stepped into the open.

Every nerve in his back braced for a blow. He'd not felt this way since Cecile led him to the window leading to the opera house chapel.

_I am a man, now. No one dares beat me._

He walked on, fighting the convulsions that threatened to trip him. He would not cower here; he would not play the beast to any man. He would not—

He stopped. A child, perhaps three years of age, toddled from a doorway to stare at him. Without volition he covered his face once again. The child watched him walk past and, just as he reached the corner, broke into a smile.

_A child smiled . . ._

He attempted a smile in return and the babe gurgled in delight, then disappeared into the doorway.

His heart might burst with the wonder of it, and the wonder kept him walking though the morning, past the scent of patisseries opening for the day's business, avoiding the merchants and shop girls and dock men hurrying to work. Not one gave him a second glance. All these years he'd believed his face to be the curse, and now, it had earned him a smile, nothing more.

As he walked the streets of Paris he clung to Raoul's promise: _say the word and I will follow you._ Raoul had betrayed him, tricked him, attempted to kill him, and yet, when he made his promise he'd mean it.

Several times a man in the crowd seemed to be about to speak to him, to threaten him he was certain. He made sure to drop his hand, though it became harder each time, and squared his shoulders. He would not cower. And each time, the man would scurry away, perhaps as frightened by his deformity as he.

The mist burned off, the streets grew wider, and soon he found himself standing before a manor house. Above the gates he read, _de Chagny_. The gate stood open by an inch, and he took that to be Raoul's assurance that he would keep his promise.

He needed three deep breaths this time to push through the gate, and enter.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Meg Giry ran up the stairs ahead of Christine. She dragged the heavy valise the Comtesse had insisted Christine bring. Even without the weight of the luggage to slow her down, Christine lagged behind. She stared in awe; never had she suspected Mme Giry possessed such a beautiful home. She would have thought—if she had ever imagined Mme Giry away from her beloved opera house—that her home would reflect the theater's style. As she looked around her, however, she saw a simple, charming and circumspect décor. Soothing blues and greens covered the walls and windows; polished wood mirrored the few _objects d'art_ placed on them. Nothing in the Giry home reminded Christine of the debauchery of the place in which she'd lived for so many years.

"Maman wants you to have your own room," Meg told her as she pushed open a door. "I thought we could share, but she said no—we've always shared, haven't we, Christine?"

Christine smiled. "We have. Where is your room?"

Meg pointed to the door next to the one she'd opened. "We can hear each other through the walls. But it's not the same as sleeping in the dormitories."

"Oh, Meg, what's to stop us from visiting each other as often as we like?"

Meg grinned. "Maman said you would have changed. She said no one could go through such horrors and not. But I don't think you have."

Christine took her valise from Meg and set it on a small bureau, then moved toward the window. Drapes hid the night but she pulled one aside and stared into the blackness. Behind her, she felt Meg move close.

"I am changed," she said, her words soft, though not meant only for Meg. She turned to smile at her friend. "I am changed, Meg, but not the way your mother thinks. And changed or not, you are still my sister, aren't you? My champion. How could anything take away my love for my little sister?"

Meg laughed and threw her arms around her. "Can you tell me—oh, I want to know everything! We were all so frightened, Christine, and the people—they wanted to kill him! I can't imagine how he got away. How did Raoul rescue you? Maman said she felt as though she'd sent the Vicomte to his death." Meg pulled back, her mouth curled around her horrible thought. "He didn't kill him, did he? The Phantom—Raoul can't have killed him!"

"No." Christine swallowed and turned back to the window. "No, Meg, he lives. I know he lives."

Again she stared through the dark glass, pressing her face ever closer, until her shadow blocked all reflective light from its surface, and she saw the city spread before her. He had to be out there, somewhere. _Angel_, she thought. _Angel?_

"Christine?"

She let the curtain drop between her and the world outside. She longed for the touch of his mind but knew she needed patience. And he had taught her patience, even if he possessed such a small store of that virtue himself. The thought made her smile again, and she shook her head.

"You will tell me, won't you?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, Meg, I didn't sleep last night and I couldn't bear to stay in the de Chagny home, wandering about, so I made Raoul take me when he went out. Now, I have no energy, not even enough for a simple conversation."

"He didn't get hurt at all, did he?"

"Who?"

"Raoul, of course."

Christine closed her eyes. "Terribly."

"But you said he went out. If he were injured—"

"He nearly died, Meg. I'm sorry; I don't mean to be sharp with you. I know I need to tell you and your mother all that happened, but not now. Please. Not yet."

Meg sighed. "Maman said you needed rest. She said the Opera Ghost must take your very soul."

Christine jerked to stare at her friend. "When did she say that?"

Meg frowned. "This morning, when I begged her to let you come stay with us. Is this not a wonderful house?"

Sighing, Christine followed Meg's change of subject. "It is. How does your mother come by it?"

Meg shrugged. "I asked her and she told me only that a friend paid her well for services rendered. She ordered me to ask no more so I stopped." Her eyes sparked. "But she has not said so to you."

"I never thought she'd choose to live away from the opera house."

"Well, no one can live there now. I'm glad we had somewhere to come. I loved living in the dormitories but here—we can do as we please, you know. No one to tell us when to dance and when to rest." She giggled, but it plunged into a sob.

Christine wrapped an arm around Meg and led her to sit on the bed. "I'll miss it, too," she said. "No more singing." She swallowed and closed her eyes.

"You can sing wherever you want," Meg said.

"And you can dance whenever you want," Christine returned. "This is silly, Meg. In all of Paris, is there not another place we can do what we were made to do? Your mother has many connections. Before long, we'll be on stage again."

"I hope so." At Meg's fierce tone laughter bubbled in Christine's throat, and soon the two were giggling together.

Too soon, Meg sobered. "Christine, if I stay much longer, Maman will forbid me to even speak to you. She has given me lectures all day on how I am to treat you, and how I am not to badger you for details. She won't believe I'm innocent—"

"You?" Christine teased. "Why would she think that of you?"

Meg left, immersed in giggles, and Christine spent a few moments unpacking what Raoul's mother had given her, and found several modest dresses as well as undergarments, all of which would fit her as if made for her. She'd known Raoul's mother long enough to realize she succeeded at anything she undertook, and that her kindness had never reached an end.

Once again the window enticed her. She pulled the curtains back, but that left the panes blank as mirrors, reflecting only what was in the room, so she drew the fabric around her like a cloak and once more pressed her face against the glass. _Angel? Where are you? Are you safe? _

She felt no answer. Eyes closed, she pushed harder against the window, letting her tears rain onto the glass. _Angel?_

And then she felt his intangible touch, like the sunlight she'd seen in Raoul's hair, like the signs of sun and beauty she'd glimpsed in sporadic morsels all through the day. _I'm here. I'm here._

And though she felt nothing more, she knew her Angel was safe.

"The Vicomte will see you after you have slept," the manservant said, and bowed himself out of the room.

He looked around him, astounded. Never in his memory had he stood among such graceful furnishings. He'd done his best to make his underground rooms his own but he'd not had the same resources as the de Chagny family, and his own tastes ran more to gold-flaked busts of composers than this simple fleur-de-lis and forget-me-not wallpaper, or the sedate draperies that let in little light.

He perched on the edge of a delicate settee and removed his shoes before venturing further. One wall displayed a grouping of daguerreotypes clustered around a miniature oil portrait of a kind-faced, noble woman. He stared into her eyes for long minutes before moving on. A desk held silver-backed toiletries, the pitcher by the washbasin brimmed with warm water. He splashed his face and wiped the grime on his sleeve, choosing not to foul the cloths laid out for his use.

He passed the bed, its lace coverlet folded down, inviting him to sleep, and returned to study the woman's portrait again.

_Angel?_

He heard her in his mind and turned as if he expected her to enter the room.

_She's not here_, he told himself. He closed his eyes and let the whisper of her spirit wash over him, sooth his fatigue. But he could not bring himself to answer—not yet. If he let her see his pain now he'd devastate her. She'd given him everything, offered him more than everything, and to see him so near despair would destroy her.

Rather than answer her call, he turned back to the likenesses on the wall. _Family_, he thought, with a wry twitch to his mouth. They must be family: husband and children clustered around the loving mother.

He felt Christine prod the edges of his consciousness again and, rather than let her in, he threw up the sturdiest barriers he could. Abandoning his futile study of the family, he slipped into the bed and, finally, into sleep.

She woke him much later, her song sweet and insistent in his mind. He felt himself smile as he reached for his mask, before he remembered he had left it behind.

He rose and padded to the windows; pushing aside the heavy draperies to let the last of the sunset pierce his vision. He winced, then stared at the unaccustomed beauty. In his lifetime he'd spurned the sunsets; any hint of the sun. Now, he soaked in its glory and opened his mind to Christine.

_I'm here. I'm here._

_Angel. _And,_ peace. _Her returning joy strengthened him andas the light faded he squared his shoulders. Now, he must face Raoul.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"You kissed him!"

Meg stared at Christine as she would a babbling foreigner, and Christine winced at her shocked expression. Meg and her mother had given her two days to rest and recover but even that amount of time would not be enough to recover from a haunting past and an uncertain future. Rather than tax herself with the proper posture that her status as a visitor demanded, Christine rested her head against the chair upholstery.

"Christine, my dear." Mme Giry moved forward to grasp Christine's hand. "I'm not sure you realize—to him—that act would be as a promise—a pledge—"

Meg gasped at her mother's words. Mme Giry scowled at Meg before going on.

"Christine, I think you don't know him as well as I do—"

At that, Christine smiled. "I know him well enough. And it was that act that earned Raoul's life; earned us passage back to this world—that one kiss." She said nothing of the second kiss. Her Angel may choose to reject her pledge, but she had given it and would never break it.

"I see." Mme Giry nodded. "You must forgive our curiosity, my dear, as there is much we don't know."

Christine sighed. She knew she had to explain everything soon, but the effort of gathering her thoughts tired her. "He told us to take the boat, and. . .and we did." On its own, her hand searched for the chain where the ring once dangled, found nothing and dropped to her lap. "We found the way easily enough and came to the surface near the river."

"And from there, Raoul took you to his maman," Meg sighed. "Christine, that's so romantic."

Mme Giry made a sharp movement that Christine realized she wasn't meant to see. She closed her eyes, her hand once again finding its way to her throat. When Meg huffed, she jerked her hand away and her eyes flew open.

"And now you're engaged to him and—"

"To the Phantom?" Christine asked.

"No! To Raoul—"

"Meg." This time the warning rang in Mme Giry's voice.

"Madame Giry, I'm teasing her, please, don't scold her."

"And please don't call me Madame; we are not at the opera house any longer."

Christine smiled, yet felt her eyes fill. Madame Giry had invited her to call her "Maman", as Meg did, when Christine first came to live with them. Over the years, the teasing and jealousy of the other dancers had forced Christine to address her more formally, but the old name held a world of comfort in its syllables.

"Maman," she corrected herself, then stopped. "Yes, Maman," she said again, and much of the fatigue left her, freeing her to bask in the warmth of her only family's love.

"_Why _can't I ask her, Maman? Raoul is so handsome!" As if she sensed Christine's growing strength, Meg leaned closer to hear the story.

"I am—" Christine glanced at Mme Giry, then took a deep breath. "I am no longer engaged."

Mme Giry's expression never changed but Meg, who had been staring with her mouth hanging open, now jumped up. "How can you let this happen? Christine—how can Raoul act like a base rogue? He can't think _you've_ done anything wrong! Maman!" She turned to her mother, certain the woman could arrange Raoul's actions to conform to their proper order.

"But I _have_ done something wrong, Meg. Oh, not in the way you mean. Ang— the Phantom—and I never—" She covered her face with her hands. "But I should never have accepted Raoul's ring. _That_ was my wrongdoing."

"But Christine, he is a Vicomte—"

For the third time Mme Giry stopped her daughter's words. Christine turned to her. "Maman, please, I don't mind the questions and I will answer everything I am able. You yourself told Meg I have been changed, and that is true. But even you don't know how—you don't know how—"

As her words trailed off, the silence crept into the room and took their place. Soft shushings from the street and staccato birdsong seeped inside. Against the daily sounds of the house and the busy streets outside, she heard—no, felt—a melody weave its way into her mind. She covered her face as if to block it out, then let her hands slip back into her lap and lifted her head. Neither Madame Giry nor Meg seemed to hear, and Christine felt only a brief moment of surprise before she felt a smile light her solemn face. _My Angel. You're here!_

He studied his onetime rival, marveling that, though they were near matched in height and strength, they differed in all else—age, intellect, station, experience. Life had favored the Vicomte, always would, while it ridiculed any claims he himself might put upon it.

Raoul bowed, a stiff nod to duty, and he bowed back.

"Christine Daaé is your guest?" He had not meant his first words to Raoul to bring her up, but his heart would not have it any other way.

"She was. She has gone to the Giry's. We thought it best and they will care for her."

"They always have."

Raoul nodded.

_Strange, _he thought._ I am the one unversed in social niceties, and yet, I am the conversationalist._

Raoul quirked an eyebrow. "Something amuses you?"

"Wayward thoughts only. They plague me."

"Indeed?" Raoul appeared unwilling to make issue with anything he said. "My father wishes to speak to you."

"Your father!" Panic seized him and he stopped his hand midway in flight to protect his face. "What can he want with me? I don't know the man."

"You don't know any man," Raoul said, and this time his lips twitched.

He felt his own dormant humor rise and thought, _another point on which we are alike—this wry humor. I hope I don't lose mine._

Raoul went on. "Not even me."

Taken off guard, he accused, "But I trusted you." Whether he spoke in argument or pleading, he didn't know.

"And your trust is not misplaced. I gave you my word."

He stared at the younger man for a long minute, warring with his instincts. _Hide, lash out. He carries a sword, wrestle it from him and you will be safe._

Raoul stared back without challenge, rather, assessing him.

Finally, he brushed aside what his instincts urged and said, "And so I also give you mine." _Something I have never done before._

Raoul nodded, his smile gentle as he led the way to yet another room in this massive rabbit warren of a house.

The older man stood with his back to them as they entered. Raoul said, "Father," and the man straightened his shoulders.

Without turning the Comte barked, "What name are we to call you?"

"I have no name. If I ever did, I no longer remember it."

"Bah! Every man has a name. You are no different than the rest of humanity, and I dislike this pretense at an opera ghost."

He lifted his chin. "Do you prefer Devil's Child?"

The man spun around and he found his hand once again guarding his face.

"I do not!" Using a walking stick, the old man advanced on him. "Let me see your face."

He felt his jaw harden and he kept his hand where it was, at the level of his eyes. "I have no wish to show the world my face."

"Bah!" The Comte hobbled closer still. "You are a guest in my home and might show me the courtesy of compliance, at least."

He bowed, careful to keep the scarred half of his face in shadow. "Forgive me. I've never been a guest in any home before. My education has been sadly lacking."

The Comte chuckled and his eyes flitted toward Raoul. "You've brought us a ready wit, my son. Well, perhaps, my nameless guest, I can teach you your manners and give you a name."

His anger flared and he disguised it with a bitter twist of his mouth.

Comte de Chagny had come within reach and now held out his hand.

He eyed the old man's fingers, saw their tremble, and fought not to flinch away. He'd not been touched by any man save an abusive master since childhood. "I think no man would wish to give me a name."

"Perhaps not, perhaps so." The old man tugged his filthy sleeve. "Let me see your face."

With every bit of courage he could muster, he dropped his hand and felt the blow of the old man's gaze. He shivered and looked toward the fire that warmed the room.

"Exactly as she said. . . ." the Comte murmured.

He jerked to stare at the Comte. "Who said?" he whispered, but neither of the de Chagny men answered him.

"Father?" Raoul asked.

The old man shook himself as if out of a stupor and, without looking at Raoul, commanded, "My son, I ask that you ring for supper to be served here. And drink, plenty of drink. We may have need of it." As Raoul turned to obey, his father added, "And please, tell your mother to meet us here."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_A woman? The Comte had invited a woman to join the conversation and neither asked his leave nor given him the choice to disappear? _Once again his rage flared and he felt helpless to hide it.

The old man waited until Raoul left the room before he hobbled closer. "Softly, softly," he whispered. "My son has told me much about you. I think I would not have liked to face this anger of yours even yesterday."

"No, you wouldn't." He clenched both fists. "I have no wish to be thrust into society. I came here because Raoul—only because—"

"My wife would not appreciate being classed with the rest of society, not by you. She has developed a great interest in you."

"And _that _is meant to reassure me? Please, give me leave to once again quit your company. As you see, I am not even dressed fit for a brawl."

The Comte snorted. "She would not care. I think your attire would be most appropriate in her mind, proper for the ghost of a man who has spent his life in the sewers."

He turned then and walked with as much control as he could manage toward the door. The Comte's chuckle spurred him, whether to turn and throttle the man or to run he would never know, as the door opened and a woman stepped through.

They stared at one another, she, in open curiosity; he, in shock.

She looked to be a scant handful of years older than himself. Her long face and clean features proclaimed her Raoul's parent. He felt her eyes on his face like barbed whips and only then did he realize he'd once again shielded his deformity with his hand.

"My wife, the Comtesse de Chagny," the Comte murmured. "And he claims to have no name, my dearest, so I cannot make a proper introduction."

As if he were a gentleman of rank, she held out her hand to him. He stepped back, forward, cursing himself for his awkward mien. The Comtesse saved him with a sweep of her outstretched hand, changing her gesture into a curtsey. He marred his returning bow with the hand over his face.

Even in the seclusion of his mind he could not put two coherent words together. He wanted only to hide.

The Comtesse's tone held none of the Comte's scorn. "No name? But then I must call you 'friend.'"

No one had ever called him that and meant it. He took a deep breath and let it clear his mind somewhat. Realizing his turn had come in the conversation, he bowed again. "I see whence Raoul comes upon his handsome looks. I beg your pardon. I was so gifted by neither of my parents."

"Bah." She laughed. "I see in you a resemblance to your father."

At that, his hand dropped farther. "Madame? _I_ do not know my father. How can you?"

The Comte cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we have before us a mystery of names and deaths and birth records—"

"And the solution, my dear. Do not forget we have the solution here before us."

"You think so, as well, do you?" The Comte guided his wife to a settee and bade her sit, then hovered beside her. As Raoul entered, followed by a manservant bearing a huge tray, he looked up. "Ah. Philippe. The very man I wish to see. Come. I have a favor to ask that I wish not to shout to the entire household."

The servant hastened over to listen to a lengthy, whispered discourse.

Raoul removed a teacup from the laden tray. "Mother?" he asked, and held it toward her. At her nod, he filled it and handed it over.

He watched the younger man, and wonder suffused his mind. He trusted _this_ man? This favored son of opinionated nobles, this darling of Paris? What pledge had he to believe in? A few words, sung as the boy fled with _her_?

Raoul met his eyes then, and the shocking pain he saw tore at his heart. _Dear God, what demon fooled me into believing I deserve the woman _he_ loves?_

Philippe murmured, "Your grace," before he hurried out.

"Come, sit with us, our nameless guest." The Comte, done with his servant, turned his unwelcome attentions once again to him. He swallowed, unsure, but Raoul motioned to the settee facing the Comte and Comtesse. Once he'd seated himself, the Comte went on.

"I have a story to tell. Raoul has heard a bit of it—"

"And I have solved it! Don't forget that tidbit." The Comtesse's laughter sparkled like the firelight reflected on the crystal. "I am teased for my intellect, my friend," she said as she leaned toward him, "But bah! It begs to be used, and I am seldom wrong."

"This is true, Mother." Raoul moved to the tray, and raised an eyebrow at his father. "As we have no one to serve, I suppose I must?"

"If you please." The Comte settled back, clearly content to wait his story. The old man's hand covered the Comtesse's, and hers turned palm upward to clasp it.

He studied the couple. Despite their vast age difference, he saw they completed each other in some subconscious but tangible way. _As Christine and I do,_ he thought, and knew again the peaceful embrace of her mind.

_I am not alone_, he thought, and surprise permeated his fear.

After ensuring that each had received what they wished, the Comte cleared his throat. "And now, to my story. A sad one, I think you will see. Come, my nameless friend. Sit more into the firelight, that I may see your face."

Why the old man's everlasting harping on his face? He'd lived with it forever; he would not forget its existence if not reminded. Call him a freak, a monster, the devil's child, and be done with it! Still, to placate the man he leaned a fraction closer.

The Comte shrugged. "Very well. As you would have it, I suppose.

"This story begins many years ago, with my sweet Veronique's ninth birthday." He gave his wife a fond smile. "Of course, we knew each other not, then. At that time, my wife—my _first_ wife, you see—commenced labor to produce our child. And so. On this long ago day I take you to, I am become a parent to a full-lunged son; I am widowed; I am once again robbed by death, as it steals my infant son as well."

_And what has this to do with me?_ he wondered, all the time attempting to appear attentive.

"It is many years later—enough to bring us to this year—that I learn something. I learn this because my wife's remains must be exhumed due to flooding on our family land. I learn that, altho her bones lie in that grave, the bundle I thought to be my son is but a rag."

He saw the Comte's rage, and for a brief moment felt an unaccustomed flash of empathy. Trickery, he hated, he railed against. And someone had tricked this insufferable old man.

He fought the empathy until it dissipated, leaving him puzzled.

"You do not see, do you, my friend?" The Comtesse set her plate aside to reach out to him again, and he thanked the table's width that she could not touch him. "We embarked on a search for the child. _His _child. Now, we think we have found him."

His eyes flew to Raoul. "But he is _your_ son, is he not, Comtesse?"

"You disappoint me," the Comte growled. "I am told you are a genius but I see no evidence."

He stood, his hands clenched so his cup spilled. "I will go now."

"No." Raoul, silent until now, rose also and stopped him with an outstretched had which, though it held no hint of threat, frightened him. "Please. My father—" He swallowed, continued. "My father has been through much. Compassion bids you stay and learn what he wishes you to know."

"Compassion? _You _wish to teach me compassion?"

Raoul bowed in assent.

He let his anger escape into the air. "Very well. Your grace." In turn, he bowed to the Comte.

The Comtesse rang a bell next to her chair, startling him, and when a young maid entered, once again he turned away, covering the side of his face with his hand. She cleaned the spilled tea without looking at him, though, and her silent obedience to the Comtesse's soft orders gave him the familiar sensation of being privy to the room's activities without being a part of them.

"Have you eaten your fill?" The Comte asked after she left, then, without waiting for an answer, he went on. "Do not fear to show your face in my home. My staff will neither revile you nor gossip about you; they lose their place along with any hope of future employment should they not comply."

He nodded, wearier than he ever remembered feeling.

"Father, he's just arrived. Give him time," Raoul said, and for the first time he suspected his trust had not been misplaced. "I believe society wearies him."

He gave a snort of laughter, with which the Comtesse joined.

The Comte smiled. "In a moment I will give you your requested departure, but for now, I offer anything you may desire. What do you wish?"

"What do _I _wish?"

"Precisely."

"I—I have need of music. Have you an organ here? Or pianoforte?"

"In the conservatory. Please, make use of it at any time. Even in the darkest hours the sounds will disturb no one."

"And—I wish to write to—" He glanced at Raoul. "To Christine. Or to the Girys, perhaps. They will wonder. . . ."

"Writing implements have been placed in your room."

"And a mask." This he blurted out, dread roughening his voice.

"Alas, my nameless friend. That is one wish with which I will not comply. Here, though you may be nameless, you may not be faceless."

The Comtesse stood and approached. Frozen, he watched her, praying that once again she would not attempt to touch him. His prayers failed as she put her hand on his ash-smudged sleeve. "You need time to assimilate us, don't you? Do not fear. My husband is a stern man, but he is not unfeeling. And he has me to temper him. This works in your favor, my friend."

He stared at her hand, trembling, until she removed it.

"You wish for the solitude of your room? Or the consolation of your music? We give you leave to go now."

Without a glance at the two men, he stalked to the door; apprehension an impetus between his shoulder blades and uncertainty a tripwire between his feet. He stumbled, found the door, and quit the room.

As they sat after a short lunch, a young girl whom Christine had never seen before carried a letter to Madame Giry.

"Where did you get this?" Madame Giry asked as she turned the paper over in her hand.

"A page brought it. I don't know who he was, or what house he came from. He rang and handed it to me and left." She stood beside the woman as though waiting for further instructions, but her black eyes sought out Christine's, and she stared. Abashed, Christine lowered her gaze.

"Have you met Leonie?" Meg asked.

Christine shook her head in answer and Meg went on.

"She was to move into the dormitories the day—the last day we performed." Meg hesitated under the force of her mother's glare. "Maman had interviewed her and her uncle gave over all responsibility, and now, even though all of Paris—all of France!—knows the opera house stands empty, he has not come to retrieve her."

Christine now stared back at the child. A few years younger than Meg, the girl possessed the slim build and fine features that many of the ballet rats shared.

"You like to dance, then?" Christine asked her.

Leonie nodded. "I am going with Meg when she finds another placement," she said. "And then I will show him—"

Madame Giry tisked.

"Your uncle?" Christine guessed.

"Yes. Him. He hates me, but not as much as I hate him!"

"Christine, please, if you could refrain from encouraging her anger. . ." Madame said, and held out the note. "Perhaps this shall distract you."

Christine took it, but looked into Madame Giry's face. "Maman?"

"A letter, Christine. A letter from him."

Christine gasped. For a moment she felt the same shiver she'd always felt on the advent of one of the Opera Ghost's notes. But the Opera Ghost no longer existed—this letter would be from her Angel.

_Angel_, she thought, and felt a welcoming caress of song inside her mind.

Meg leaned forward but her mother took her hand and drew her to the door. "You also," she said to Leonie. "You both must work at the barre. Meg, you must master your curiosity as well as you have your posture. . . ."

After they left the room, Christine held the letter in both hands and read the words over and over again. "Friend, I am safe. Do not worry. You have done well." She studied the handwriting—sloppy and a bit childish. Perhaps he'd written the note in a rush? She'd read many things he'd penned, and recognized the sweep of his letters, hurried though they might be. _Angel, _she thought._ Angel, I need you. Come back to me._

She felt nothing—no answering song or hope or joy—nothing, not even a sinking despair. But she'd heard his singing before. _Patience._

Again she read the lines, desperate to find some thought of herself in the note, but all she saw were the same words. _You have done well._

She rose and rushed into the practice room. "Maman, what does he mean? You've done well—what have you done for him?"

Madame Giry turned, her fingertips resting on her shoulder, her eyes questioning. "I have helped him since I first met him as a child. You know this, Christine."

"Please, Maman. He is—" She crushed the thin paper to her chest. "My Angel," she finished in a whisper.

Madame Giry took the note and smoothed it. "I do not know where he is, Christine."

She meant it, Christine knew. She reached for the older woman, feeling as though a curtain of pain separated her from the rest of the world. Madame Giry's form blurred and only her eyes still blazed. Christine felt, instead of paper in her hand, a leather mask—warm from his skin but still unyielding. _Angel?_ Nothing.

"Maman, will he still want me to—will he—at all?"

Madame Giry laughed. "Child, of course he will. But he does nothing without great deliberation. When it is safe he will come to you—or call you to come to him."

"But how do you know—" Christine stopped. What did she want? Assurances that Madame could read messages untold into his few words? And if she wanted to hear, she must prepare herself to believe all the woman chose to reveal. But Madame Giry could not hear the Angel's thoughts as Christine did, could she?

"Christine, come with me."

Christine followed her from the room, through the scullery and into the garden, redolent with the fragrance of herbs. She sat on the stone bench, warm with the morning's heat, and waited.

Madame Giry sat next to Christine, her hands folded in her lap, her back as rigid as if she expected a review from a ballet master. Her hair, no longer restrained in a long braid, gathered at her nape, though some strands escaped into wild freedom. She looked away from Christine, her eyes tracing the neat borders of the herb beds, until finally she nodded once, as if to some unseen command, and turned.

"You are no longer afraid?"

"No, of course not. He is—"

Madame Giry waited.

"He is my Angel, Maman." _And I belong to him_, she thought, but couldn't say. "I miss him—and now, having news of him does not reassure me so much as fuel my impatience."

"This I can understand." Madame touched the note, though she made no effort to take it from Christine. "But we have no way to find him until he wishes to be found."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Twice Raoul called upon Christine, meeting her in the dim severity of the Girys' parlor. Both times Madame Giry sat with them; both times Raoul refused to meet Christine's gaze, would not even uncross his arms and show himself the least bit approachable. Both times Christine endured the waves of guilt that washed over her. But she could give Raoul no hint of encouragement.

During his second visit, Raoul told them he planned to leave for his father's southern-most estate. "Some trouble has come up, it seems, and it will give me something to—" He stopped and let his anguished glance dwell for a moment on Christine's shoulder before he looked away.

_Something to take his mind off me_, Christine thought. _Off my betrayal_. "Oh, Raoul," she breathed.

Madame Giry, seated behind and to Christine's side, made some sort of rapid movement that stilled the rest of Christine's words. Sympathy served no purpose, not to Raoul. Christine knew he also needed healing, but she could not give it and she seldom considered his feelings anymore.

"If you have need of anything—" Raoul began.

"No. You are kind but I am able to take care of myself."

For the first time in more than a week Christine saw Raoul smile. "I begin to learn how capable you are." His smile faded before she could respond. "Still, my parents agree that should you have any need, you must let them know. Send word to our house. Even if they are not in residence, they will see to it that someone helps you."

Christine nodded, willing him to try at least once during his visit to look at her. If she said nothing, then perhaps he would, and would see more than just the woman who had reneged on her promise.

The silence bore down on the three. Christine knew Madame Giry still sat beside her but felt no impatience from her. When Raoul finally raised his head she whispered, "Raoul, I am so sorry."

"I know." Worlds of pain filled his two words. "I am also. I had—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I will write to you."

For a moment Christine longed for the safety of the time when she believed this titled man held her heart. He had been more than safe; he'd been a buffer between her and the dangers of darkness. She remembered his kisses—passionate, but eliciting no passion in her; his promises—of light and life and the storybook ending she no longer believed in; his wealth and prestige—which in turn promised safety from the world of poverty. She longed to return his love but as she didn't, she could not dishonor him with lies. And she would not betray her Angel again, not even in thought.

"We will hear from you, then?" Madame Giry asked as Raoul stood to leave.

Christine sighed and swept the thoughts of her Angel away. For years he had lived inside her mind; for whatever reason he'd not been there—except for a few whispers—since she'd kissed him.

Before that—since she'd kissed Raoul.

Her Angel must come back, or tell her where she could find him. He must and she vowed to search him out if she had to wait much longer. Her heart would tell her the time; her heart would tell her where to look.

Her eyes focused again on Raoul and she found him staring straight at her face. Though he guarded his expression she saw his pain, but she also saw pity.

She straightened her spine, clasped her hands in her lap, and threw his pity back in his face with a flash of eyes so angry he flinched. She stood, felt her shame fall from her like a forgotten bit of stitchery and clenched her jaw. "I _am_ sorry, Raoul, but perhaps—you see, I must find my Angel. Will your parents help me?"

Behind her, Madame Giry gasped, "Mignon!"

Raoul stood also. "No, Christine, please, it's not even been a week. Give him time—"

"I will. Once I find him, I will give him all the time in the world."

A discreet knock announced Raoul's arrival, but he only growled, "Come," and did not turn away from the window. He felt Raoul's approach behind him and steeled himself.

Raoul stopped a foot away and he felt the younger man's gaze on the unmarred side of his face. His right hand twitched. He clenched it to halt its automatic journey to protect himself.

"Who is in our garden that you glare at him?" Raoul asked.

"No one. 'Tis merely a garden." _'Tis a world of beauty I never thought to set eyes on. I have only held an occasional rose, never seen such profusion of chaotic perfection. _He turned to face Raoul.

"That relieves my mind," Raoul said. "I feared for his life. You look ready to murder."

He growled, "I find no humor in that remark."

"I intended none. You scowl like black death."

He winced but continued to study the younger man. He'd caught his hair back, and his brown eyes glowed clear and gentle. How was he to learn to read the man's emotions when Raoul gave no clues? He sighed.

"What troubles you?" Raoul moved closer, though he gave no sign that he might attempt physical contact.

"The world. I find I do not know it; I barely recognize it."

"That, I understand. But I have pledged myself to teach you, show you. You need not fear it; only spend a bit less time secluding yourself with your music."

He snorted. "Music is all I have."

"And you know how untrue that is. We've been here three days now. Have you ventured outside?"

He gave Raoul a look of shock, and didn't answer.

"My friend, you cannot forsake the world—"

"And why is that?"

Raoul crossed his arms and leaned back against the settee. For the first time a look of anger crossed his face. "You no longer live in the bowels of the opera house, man. If you refuse the company of others, the beauty of the world around you, you are no better off now than you were before."

His anger matched Raoul's, but he fought it down. He turned back to the window, taking comfort in the cold glass under his scarred cheek. A cloud passed its shadow over the jumble of flowers and when it left them, they glowed with more seduction than he'd noticed before. "A part of me longs for that world," he murmured, "and a part cringes in fear."

"You're not a coward."

"I don't know that."

"Bravery," Raoul said, "is not to act without fear, but to act despite the fear."

He swallowed and let the words sink into his heart. Raoul was right. He had always acted like a coward before—letting evil guide him and lull him into false security. Now, without that sham of protection, he must find his own store of courage. His greatest fear was that he would not find any within himself. He nodded. "Give me. . . a bit more time. Please? I will try—I am trying—to fit into your world."

"But it is your world, too."

He pressed closer to the window. Both Raoul's words and the thought of Christine tugged at the edges of his conscience. _Christine._ He needed her to make the world safe for him. Longing filled him. "I wish to see Christine."

"No."

"No? How can you stop me? I know where she is. One word and she'll fly to me. She always has." He knew his words wounded the younger man but his own longing drowned his small store of compassion. _Or perhaps,_ he thought, _this is kindness, cloaked in truth. _

"She is safe where she is, and you have much to learn before you can embark on that aspect of your life."

"I know all I need to of Christine—"

Raoul chuckled. "According to my mother, no man knows all he needs about a woman."

He shrugged. "No matter. I will take it upon myself to study well. But I need her with me. She inspires me."

"And my counsel is to wait."

"Raoul, I think you do not understand my need—"

"You think that?"

He met Raoul's eyes and again saw the younger man's pain. A strange ache filled him, part the compassion he would rather forsake, and part the guilt he had already admitted. He blamed no one but himself for Raoul's suffering but the boy would not heal if the world mollycoddled him. "I am sorry," he said. "I can't change what is, anymore than you can. You know that. But you are indeed my teacher now. I'll do as you suggest, though my soul fights against it." He tipped his head. "Perhaps I have had too little practice with trust?"

Raoul said, "I might reassure you if I only knew how."

"I wish for two things."

Raoul spread his hands. "Yes, Christine. I know this."

He let his right hand cover his face. "And a mask."

"My father—"

"I know your father does not wish it, no, but _I_ do."

After a long silence, Raoul bowed. "Very well. White leather, then?"

The relief that flooded him weakened his voice. "If you would," he whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. Isaiah 43:1

Chapter Six

Christine faced Madame Giry, agony twisting her unsaid words.

Madame Giry shook her head. "No, Christine. The time is not right."

"How do you know? You've gotten only one note from him—"

"In which he said nothing of our coming to him. My dear, try to learn patience."

Christine sighed. But for those last few hours with her angel she'd submitted for as long as she could remember. When she'd refused to give in to the ridiculous demands and instead, made demands of her own—she'd changed and she'd forced her Angel to change as well. And now, was she to turn her back on her new self-knowledge and give in to folly?

Hugging her elbows, she wandered to the small room set aside for music. She'd spent hours there already that morning, practicing with Meg and enticing Leonie to exercise her voice, but the other girls had left on an errand and now only dancing dust motes and a sensation she couldn't name filled the place. . .a feeling. . . .

Nothing of his music remained but the words and melodies she carried in her heart. And as much as she longed to sing once again for him, the words dammed in her throat, bound in pain and weighed by tears. Other songs came easily—Bach, Wagner—every song he'd taught her—every song but the ones her Angel had written.

She sorted through the music set atop the pianoforte. The foolscap drifted through her fingers as though empty of notes. Nothing appealed. She wanted her Angel's music—she wanted her Angel, and nothing less would satisfy.

As she wandered the room she trailed her fingers across the keys, though she left them silent. The weak sun that had danced with the dust now faded behind clouds and Christine stared at the dark gray mass, rimmed in navy and burgundy and gold.

_Angel, where are you? Once again you've left me and I fear my heart cannot bear more time away from you._

The feeling she'd only sensed before now swelled. Christine wondered if it came as a message from him or from the depth of her longing.

_I love you, my Angel. I send you my love with a prayer._

The longing grew and burst over her like acid, eating through her small store of contentment.

_I send you my love with a prayer. . . _

_Angel. . . _

The words became melody and she sang with her Angel.

He'd made enough masks over the years that this new one took him less than an hour to finish. As he fastened the ties the relief flooded him like strong, hot pleasure, pure in his veins. This must rival an opium addict's bliss on taking the first draught. He felt as guilty as a fallen-back addict must, for he knew in some recess of his soul which he'd never explored that the Comte was right. He had no need of this shield, not here. The Comte's household had proven trustworthy in the last days, but he chose not to learn that lesson.

Instead, with his right hand freed of its ever-present habit, he felt able to work. Seating himself at the pianoforte he let the ribbons of his music cascade over his hands til he knew no difference between himself and the notes. The scribbled sheets of foolscap grew in number as his composition took shape. He felt for the first time in months that he might once again forge a connection with Christine through his song.

Not until words joined the notes did he feel a presence guiding him, and dread filled him. _No, I will not give in to that monster again. I will not. Dear God. . . _

After long minutes he opened eyes he'd hadn't realized he'd closed. These words were ones of love and prayer, and the demon knew nothing of this goodness.

He breathed a silent _thank You_, and his heart pounded as he untied the mask and let it fall to his side. If God had given him this song, he would offer it back, and offer it as well to his sweet Christine.

My prayer of love I send to you  
precious, true and dear  
Your love returns as a gift from above  
falling sweetly upon my ear

Your love completes my heart  
as no words could ever do  
My love for you is a pledge that I give  
to hold your whole life through

His voice swelled and in the heaven of the music he heard Christine sing with him. He closed his eyes again, for the moment at peace.

Our love is a prayer, decreed from above  
Let our hearts become one, ever bound by our love.

She knew the words as well as if he'd set her to study them.

Oh, Angel, I feel you steal into my heart  
It grows with my love for you though we're apart

I pray you my love  
for a lifetime I'll give  
You all of me, endlessly,  
for as long as we live

Once again they sang the refrain together.

Our love is a prayer, decreed from above  
Let our hearts become one, ever bound by our love.

Though she knew he could not have entered the room without her notice, at the song's finish she opened her eyes and peered around her. The room, as empty as before, glowed. A glance at the still shadowed sky outside told her the light came from somewhere besides the window. Puzzled, she stood so as to see better. The glow dimmed but even so, it left a sweet warmth, like a consoling caress, wrapped securely around her heart.

She longed for him, still, but now with a gentle peace, because once again she'd found her heart within his music.


	7. Chapter 7

But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine." Isaiah 43:1

Chapter Seven

Over the next week he managed to hide the mask from the Comte. He felt himself slipping back into duplicity as if he'd burrowed back into the underground caves. Every nerve of his body screamed for him to hide, though he could find no rationale for the urgings. A simple trick of his psyche, he told himself.

Soon, though, he knew the old man would surprise him with his face covered by more than his hand, and he dreaded the encounter. The old man would rage, and then—he could not imagine further. What did a powerful man do when angered and disobeyed? When _he _had been thwarted, he killed.

He sat again at the pianoforte, his ever-present comfort, and listened to the silent house. Only the Comte refused to knock before entering this room, so why this overwhelming urge to shield his face? None of the household had remarked on his deformity nor threatened him because of it.

And yet, he sat alone with a white leather mask protecting his face once again. Like a guilty addict, he reveled in the feel of the leather against his skin. Sensations of safety warred with an innate sense of wrong. Did he want to become so dependant on the mask, again? Did he want to place his trust in a thing that an enemy could rip away?

To remove it meant he'd once again be vulnerable; meant to open himself to hatred. He'd had enough of that vicious emotion; he'd resolved to forsake it and this place of waiting refuge offered sanctuary in which to wean himself from all that was darkness. And yet. . .and yet. . .he wore the mask. He let it grow warm, like a lover's caress.

Trembling, he reached for the mask's fastenings, and could not untie them.

_Dear God, I can't do this._

After several short, terrified breaths, he undid the clasp and let the white leather slip out of place; held its promise of security against his chest. But not even this prized possession was what he wanted closest to his heart. He wanted Christine. He wanted God.

_Dear God, I can't do this. . . without You._

Of course not. Why could he not remember that he need not do any of this alone?

He pushed the mask farther away until loose scores hid it; his need for its protective drug abated, and ran his fingers over the keys. A soft light, coming neither from candles nor sun, illuminated the notes he knew he must play. Gratitude and longing blended with the music, and he began to sing.

Only in darkness can I live

only in shadow and fear

Far from the arms of your immortal love

that calls me and brings me to here.

Out of my desert and into the night

I climb and I beg you'll appear

My love, my life,

My reason for song.

My joy, my Angel—

come to me, come to me—

Come to me!

Christine sat up with a start, her heart pounding. He'd called her. Finally, he'd called her, after weeks of wondering and begging and fighting her own inclinations, he'd called her. She looked around the room, uncertain for a moment where she was or what she'd been doing.

"Christine?" Meg looked up from the barre. "What's wrong?"

Christine shook her head. "I think everything will be right, soon. I think we will go to my Angel."

"Really?" Meg straightened and stretched. "All of us? Christine, you'd take us with you when you go to him?"

"I'd not thought otherwise. Maman would not wish it, would she—that I go alone?"

"Maman would rather lock you in a convent until you're wizened and ancient. How do you know? How will you tell her? He sent no note—I would have known. How will you convince her?"

"He'll send word. Today or tomorrow. But you and I will pack—and Leonie. And when Maman scolds us for our lack-a-bed ways, we'll tease and drive her to distraction!"

Meg giggled. "Will it be a long journey? Because Maman in a foul mood at close quarters won't prove any entertainment whatsoever."

Christine laughed. "Perhaps we won't tease then, but just be a bit superior. I know she'll be as glad as I am to have things settled."

The Comte hobbled close to the fire as he entered the room, turned on him as though manning an attack. "You are not happy here?"

Taken aback, he shook his head. "Your grace, I have felt no lack of any good thing here, but one."

"And that would be your infernal mask?" Shaking in rage, the old man swung his cane, missing an ottoman by inches.

For the first time he noticed Raoul behind the Comte, hovering, reaching as though to steady the old man.

But he must answer soon, or fuel the Comte's anger. "I only lack Christine."

Again he saw the pain in Raoul's eyes, and felt its answer of pity in his heart. But Christine had chosen—she had chosen _him—_not the boy. He'd rather only one heart broken, not all three. T'was God's choice and gift that his own heart's desire found a home at last.

"Then why is she not here?"

Again he found himself lost as to what explanation he must give. Would he never find ease in conversation, or would incessant misunderstanding plague him always? He held his hand out to Raoul. "The Vicomte—" he began.

"Father." Raoul moved closer to the Comte. "Please, sit, rest yourself. I suggested that he wait a week or so before sending for the girl. A suggestion only, but he acquiesced."

The Comte lowered himself to the settee with Raoul's help, then leaned his chin upon the backs of his hands, still clasping the cane. "So you take my son's council?"

"On some things, yes."

The Comte nodded. "Perhaps, though, you would do well to send for her. Send for the entire household. It is a small one, I believe?"

"Yes." His heart pounded at the thought—send for Christine! "I will, now. I will—"

"Your enthusiasm bodes well for the girl but rest assured, Raoul will see to the details. Philippe, my man, will accompany them to our estate in the south of France. The unrest in the city makes necessary that we all leave."

"We leave also?" he asked.

The Comte nodded. "All will be seen to. You need not worry. But—ah—here is Philippe. He has something of intense importance to tell us."

Philippe entered, looking a bit less his usual pristine self. "Your grace." He bowed to the Comte, to Raoul and then to him. "Your grace. I have located the—the person you wished me to find, and brought her here. She is now outside this very room, under Henri's eye."

The Comte chuckled. "Well done, Philippe. I applaud your fortitude. Now, bring her in."

Philippe bowed but he could not force his eyes to follow the manservant to the door. Yet another woman thrust upon him—the Comte must revel in his discomfort. Once again, he longed for the safety of his drug and raised his hand. Raoul moved from behind his father and pulled his arm away from his face.

He struggled away and Raoul hissed, "The entire time you've been in this room you've not felt the need to hide yourself. Why now?"

"Leave him be," the Comte commanded. "I cannot vouch for this person as I do for my household, and I will not have my nameless guest mocked by a stranger—who is perhaps not such a stranger."

Both the younger men gaped at the Comte, and so missed the moment Philippe entered, followed by Henri and an older woman.

His right hand in place, his heart brimming with a gratitude that bordered on servility to the old Comte, he turned to study the woman.

"Come closer," the Comte ordered.

He glanced at her face, away in revulsion and at her again as his stomach roiled and his mind sought refuge from what must be the truth. The Comte had promised him a name, and now, he'd brought this woman—this poor excuse for motherhood. Although nearly toothless and badly aged, he still recognized her.

No! He found himself advancing on her, one hand before his face and the other clenched as though he held a rope. He would murder her—he would choke the life from her worthless neck and leave her—

Raoul stepped in front of him, blocking him. "No." The younger man's low voice managed to penetrate his rage.

The woman gawped at him, showing three rotted teeth in her gaping jaw. Were it not for Henri and Philippe behind her, she must have fled.

The Comte joined him and Raoul, and patted his arm. He shook the old man off, but could not discourage his attentions.

"Be still, my nameless friend, for I sense your name lies now within our grasp." To the woman he said, "I trust you know my guest?"

"I—I—no! Neber seen 'im afore."

"Come, don't lie to me. I see the truth written on your face as much as you see it written on his. This is the babe you stole, full-grown, is it not?"

"I—" She crumpled under the Comte's assurance. "I canna be certain, your grace. My eyes is old and my mind feeble—"

"Bah!" With surprising force, the Comte grasped his arm and drew him closer to the woman. Such was the strength of his grip that to dislodge him would surely cause him to topple. "Look you well upon him, and tell the truth lest you finish your days among the thieves and prostitutes in the prison where you belong."

Her eyes widened. "It should've died, your grace, that babe—so malformed, it was! Like to have been kissed by Satan, it was that ugly. Its mother lay dead and I knew no nobleman'd want a babe like that, so I took it away to die. Only it wouldn't, your grace. It wouldn't! And I couldna bring it back, you'd've clapped me into stocks, I'd done that. So I—I—"

"You sold me to gypsies," he finished for her. She gasped and he went on. "You may not know my face but I know yours."

"Not want the babe?" The Comte's whisper brimmed with pain. "I would that I had been given the choice to cherish my son. My son!"

The light which had followed his fingers across the keys now danced around him and the Comte and held them for a moment. Its peace gave him a moment to assimilate and to know with his heart, more than with the stunned surface of his consciousness, the truth of what he'd just learned. As it faded he recognized the triumph on the Comte's face.

The Comte shook his arm. "You see, you do indeed have a name. I saw you baptized myself before this hag spirited you away."

The woman shuffled backwards. "I telled you the truth, your grace. Don't punish a weak old woman—"

"Bah! You don't deserve the name of woman. Away with you! Out of my sight." That time, neither Philippe nor Henri needed to drag the old woman through the room.

When the door shut behind the trio, the old man nodded, and his hand on his arm trembled. "My son."

He stared at the Comte, Raoul's father. "My father? _My_ father?" he said, then, "And she is _not_ my mother?"

"Nay. I had your mother's portrait placed in your apartments. I've caught you studying her face, though you knew her not."

He bowed his head, near overcome with emotions. This old man—this startling, raging, endearing old man—was his father? And all that the old man and his wife had promised had come to pass—the mystery solved, the solution written, the name given—but he still did not know the last.

Meeting his father's eyes, he said, "Please, my—my father, I beg you. Give me my name."


	8. Chapter 8

We need others. We need others to love and we need to be loved by them. There is no doubt that without it, we too, like the infant left alone, would cease to grow, cease to develop, choose madness and even death.

Dr. Leo Buscaglia

Chapter Eight

In the bedchamber he paced between the daguerreotype of his mother—his _mother—_the window and the door. Each turn brought him further into confusion. I must leave, he thought, but to where? I have nowhere to go.

_Dear God—_

He felt as though he would never settle on one emotion—anger warred with sadness, self-pity with compassion, compassion for the old Comte—for his father—

His father.

Never had he endured such turmoil. His father—the Comte, his father. A name—his name. Dear God, the Comte had not lied, he had given him a name.

His stride grew stormy; his hands clenching over and over. He could not understand his own anger, only that he wanted to destroy all that was not his to destroy.

But it is mine, he thought. I am Erik, Vicomte de Chagny.

As if with a disconnected part of his mind he watched his own agony, hurt to his very soul, and fell to his knees beside the bed. His hands tangled in the lace and dragged the cover around him. Dear God, he needed Christine. He needed his anchor. _Christine._

"I have had a letter from the Vicomte de Chagny," Madame Giry announced to the three girls. "We are to meet him at his estate. It is quite far, I believe, and we will have several days' travel by coach to reach him. He sends his manservant, Philippe, to accompany us."

Christine sat on the settee. "Raoul? Maman, no, I don't want to go, please. Why should we go to him? He wants nothing to do with me, or my Angel—"

"Christine." Madame Giry silenced Christine's protests. She glanced at the letter. "He writes: 'He had thought to wait a month before sending for the girl but word of the unrest has concerned us all. We now worry more for your safety in the city than in travel. A Monsieur Philippe will come to collect the entire household on Monday morning. Bring only as much as cannot be replaced. All else shall be provided.'"

"My Angel will be there?"

"We must trust that it is so, Christine." Madame Giry folded the note once again and rose. "Leonie has nothing worth packing so she must help me. Christine—"

But her instructions lost themselves as joy alighted in Christine's heart. It spread its wings and her arms and she spun in delighted circles around the room.

Madame Giry caught her by the shoulders. "Christine, they worry about the revolution. We are not safe here; this is why we must go."

Christine laughed. "We'll be fine, Maman. We'll have this manservant to guard us and we're going to my Angel. That's all I care about! Once we are with him, he will keep us all safe."

"You think he is so safe, then, your Angel?"

Christine closed her eyes, remembering her last glimpse of him. Like a wide-eyed child he'd peered at her with all the wonder and confusion and vulnerability of a babe.

Subdued, she whispered, "No, he is not safe. But _we_ will be, once we are with him."

Preparations for leaving for the country estate interrupted even Erik's agony, and gave him some small measure of distraction as he assisted anyone in need of a strong back or a solution to some question of strategy. No longer allowed to sequester himself in the conservatory with his music for days on end, he acquiesced to the Comte's demands for interaction with the others of the household. Bewildered by what seemed to be an endless parade of _others_ through his day, he fought for some sort of inner control. The best he could manage was a remote air of disinterest, which seemed to fuel the Comte's ire against him even more. His newly discovered son-ship came with many demands.

And only in the few moments he stole at the pianoforte did he let Christine enter his thoughts.

_I know I've been distant. Pardon me, my love, and give me time. I cannot explain now but I will, when you come. I need that time._

And Christine's answer:_ I know, my Angel. I come._

He'd had opportunity to spend time with Raoul but had made no use of it. Conversation with anyone other than Christine still unsettled him and he took no comfort in another's presence; rather, he became irritated. Yet now, three days of unrelieved togetherness loomed, as the Comte decreed that he and the Comtesse would travel in a phaeton while Raoul and Erik would accompany the servants in the slower caravan. Erik dreaded the coming journey. He would be alone with his thoughts but for Raoul, and have no succor of music to dull his pain. His only bittersweet consolation lay in the fact that he no longer need hide his mask from his father.

His father—the man he could neither understand, nor please.

The first day of the journey, Raoul attempted conversation, speaking of the estate to which they traveled. Erik listened, interested despite himself, as he had no conception of the vast lands where this home was situated. He couldn't think of it as _his_ home, nor could he imagine a life lived with so little protection around it. He'd been inside, shielded from the sun, for most of his life. If he imagined himself in the open he imagined a horror of burning sun on unprotected skin and endless hours spent wandering a labyrinth that had no walls.

But he asked no questions, instead, let the sound of the younger man's voice lull him from noticing the jostling of the carriage and the accompanying discomfort after only an hour into the journey.

"Erik," Raoul said after a few hours of aborted conversation. "When will you take up your role?"

"My role? I'm in no opera."

"I don't speak of any scripted part. I meant—" Raoul paused. "Why did you come to find me? Did you think I would provide a life in exact replica of the one you left?"

Erik fell against the seat as if Raoul had pushed him. "Replica? Nothing in this new life resembles the old."

"Indeed? And yet, you sit alone with your music, hour after hour, hiding yourself away as effectively as you did under the opera house."

Not understanding and frustrated with what seemed his own mental weakness, Erik glared. "I have little success at this hiding of which you accuse me. I'm forever interrupted with meals and questions and the Comte."

Raoul stared at his hands. "The Comte is your father."

"I—yes."

"And mine."

"Yes, I do know this. I've never been accused of boasting a small intellect."

Raoul grinned. "Then use it. What I mean for you to infer is this—we are brothers. Whatever feelings have passed between us are in the past, and we must leave them there."

"Your feelings as well as mine? I am not the one likely to smolder with unspoken anger, Raoul. We are brothers, I admit, but we were rivals first."

He watched Raoul's face for the jumping nerve that signified anger, but never saw it. Raoul's eyes remained steady, if sad. "But I admit defeat. I rescind my claim on the girl. What more do you want?"

Erik shifted on the hard cushion. "I don't know."

Raoul stretched his legs before him, slumping, quite unlike his usual regal bearing. "Erik, you came to me. Why?"

"You gave me your word!"

"Yes. I promised to follow you."

Erik stared at his brother with new understanding. "And I have led you nowhere."

"Exactly."

"I've allowed your father and my fears the better of me in every confrontation."

"Not every one. You demanded a mask."

"Out of fear." He leaned forward to stare out the window. It framed a small section of landscape, distorted by the cloudy glass. "How can I lead you when you know the way so much better than I?"

When he looked at his brother again, Raoul shrugged. "You learn. I teach. It's that simple."

"That simple?"

You're not a fool, Erik. It will be as easy as you chose."

Conversation, he decided, could be illuminating, refreshing and stimulating, as much as it could be confusing, demeaning and cruel. And his brother, he realized, meant to keep his promise.

By the time they reached the de Chagny estate, he'd become comfortable with the rhythm of the carriage, and had begun to learn at least a small bit of what Raoul could teach him. Erik might know more of music and architecture and many of the sciences, but Raoul knew social customs and how to read another person's face. He knew something of the rhythm of human life, and attempted to impart it. Erik put every ounce of mental strength into learning all his brother taught and more, and only on one subject did Raoul balk.

"Raoul, your father—my father—told me he baptized me."

Raoul nodded and looked away. They traveled south and Erik, having taken the backward-facing seat that morning, could not keep his eyes from the sunset to his left. The colors swirled and called to him, and he longed to dance through their ribbons and weave them into a tangible object he could grasp. But the magnificence faded, as he'd seen it fade the last two nights. Strange how one part of his mind scoffed that only an idiot wouldn't know the sunset came every night, while yet another part, one connected to his heart and somehow, Christine, marveled at the exquisite gift of beauty, fleeting but ever-renewing.

"Raoul, I need to know more."

"Of what? Your name? Your birth? Your mother? Father is the one who must tell you that."

"I need to know how I may be redeemed."

"Erik, you committed two murders."

"Yes." he managed to meet Raoul's eyes without flinching.

"The confessional is imbued with the promise of confidentiality, but still, I hesitate to take you to a priest. For that I suggest you leave the country."

"I must hide from men once again?"

Raoul spread his hands as if at a loss.

"But I cannot hide from God."

He turned to spy the last of the sunset and found himself staring into a blackness so deep he thought it might never hold the stitching of the brilliant stars.


	9. Chapter 9

"A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other."

Charles Dickens

Chapter Nine

As they traveled the weather slipped into wet spring, dripped off trees and slurred mud under the wheels. The slower the carriage went the faster Christine's heart pounded, as if it could bring her closer to her Angel before any conveyance.

"We have ample time." Madame Giry stared out the window at the dripping trees.

"Maman!" Meg scolded.

"Ample time," her mother repeated.

Christine caught Meg's eye, every ounce of her impatience written in her posture.

"Ample." Within seconds Madame Giry closed her eyes. Meg glanced at Leonie, curled in the opposite corner, and scooted closer to Christine.

Her voice low, she asked, "How much farther?"

"I don't know, Meg. Too far."

"Can't you ask him?"

Christine shook her head. "I have but he can't give me an exact answer. They spent three days on the journey."

Meg flounced against the cushions. "I've been in this coach my entire lifetime. I've never pirouetted, never lived in Paris, never danced in an opera. . ."

"Never sung an aria, never listened to Angel sing. . ."

"And you will never do those things again if you don't hush and let a tired woman sleep!"

Staring at each other, wide-eyed, Christine and Meg smothered their giggles and spent the rest of the morning trying to avoid Madame Giry's indignation.

The second day Christine looked toward the window only because it was the brightest area of the coach. She could see no farther than the sill, and cared not at all, as the scenery beyond it had remained a sameness of sopping land and dripping trees.

"I've not traveled outside of Paris since your mother brought me to the opera house," she said.

"I never have." Leonie pushed in front of Christine to steal her share of the view. Christine gave it up without argument.

"Nor have I." Meg covered Christine's hand with her own. "So you must know more about this part of the world than either of us. I think the open spaces frighten Maman."

Leonie's eyes grew round. "Nothing frightens Madame!"

"Very little, it's true," Meg answered. "Neither ghost stories nor sulky children frighten her."

Open spaces. Christine stared again at the countryside rumbling by and felt her soul swept away to the shore. The rhythm of hoof beats became the crashing of waves and the cold draft became a biting salt breeze. A scent of brine and clean air filled her. But he was not there with me. Only father, and a childhood friend, and I don't want to weep again over Raoul.

She turned to the others. "Leonie, tell me a story," she begged. "Tell me again about Saint George and the dragon."

Although her surprise showed in her eyes, Leonie complied, and soon Christine lost her sorrow in the fierce drama of a lone man battling a ravening beast, all for love of a woman.

They stopped at the last inn before their journey's end, and Christine stumbled after Meg and Leonie, longing to stretch her aching, restless muscles but too tired to attempt any exercise should she find a place sheltered enough. Monsieur Philippe left to secure their rooms and returned a moment later to hand a note to Madame Giry.

She opened it, scanned it and looked up. "Come, ladies. We must eat first, and then try to sleep. Tomorrow afternoon we arrive."

Christine touched her arm. "Maman, the note—?"

"Yes, it is from him. I will let you read it in a moment."

Holding her impatient anticipation, Christine followed Madame Giry and the rest of her family to the dining room, where they chose seats at the trestle farthest from the bar and thus far from the sots who would prey on four unprotected females. As always, Philippe joined them, his bulk giving pause to any man with a mind to disturb them.

_Angel? Angel, I'm nearly there. _She felt no answering comfort, and consoled herself with the thought that he must be composing. And he'd written a note, one which Maman would allow her to read.

Madame Giry handed the crackling paper to Christine, all the while scolding Meg for her curiosity. "Mignon, really, it is addressed to Christine and has nothing to do with you."

To me, Christine thought as she took it. Shaking, she unfolded it. He had covered the entire page with his beautiful script.

"My dearest Christine,"

She could read no more for her eyes filled with tears. Three written words brought his voice to her, his touch, and the memory of a song and a kiss both overflowing with promise. Only when she felt a tug on the note did she open her eyes and snatch it back from Leonie's quick hand.

"My dearest Christine,

"This lowly missive must seem cold to you and I offer my apologies. I have kept my mind distant from you, not from any wrong on your part, but for my own peace as I wait. Oh, Christine, I long to see you, to hold you, to sing with you once again. This note will reach you at your last stop and so the morrow will see us reunited.

"My love, this world I find myself in—I wonder, will it puzzle you as it does me? Will you stare about you in consternation and strive to find meaning in its oddities? You have known only the one existence, living in the opera house, as have I. Yet your world contained others. My world contained only you.

"My Christine, I have put off giving you my bit of news, so much have I struggled with its implications. It astounds me and renders me near wordless. Christine, I have a name. I am called Erik.

"For the first time in my life I may sign the name given to me by my father, given to me in Baptism, my name. I am

Yours forever,

Erik."

Oblivious to the food congealing on the plate before her, Christine held the paper to her heart, willing it to convey the warmth of her love to the man who wrote it, and reached for him again with her mind.

_Angel? My Angel, my love? Erik?_

_Christine. _My_ love._

His answer brought a faint heat to her cheeks. _Are you well?_

_As always. I am composing. . ._

_As always. . . _She let her delight burble into her words. _My Angel of music, is it for me to sing?_

_Perhaps. Or for me to sing to you._

_When may I hear it?_

_Tomorrow, when we meet. _

_Angel. Erik._

_I love you._

_"_Christine, your food is cold. Why aren't you eating?"

Torn from the delights of his golden mind, Christine gaped at Meg for a moment, unseeing. Then, "I don't want it." And she needed no sustenance other than her love. She leaned across Meg so Madame Giry could hear as well. "They call him Erik."

Madame Giry gave her a sharp glance and a sharper nod. "A good name, a noble name. He will wear it with honor."

"Maman, this does not surprise you."

"Christine," Madame Giry began, then shook her head as others in the room roared with drunken laughter. "He will want to tell you himself."

Once they reached the de Chagny estate, the Comte released Erik from any obligation to help. Erik suspected Raoul had something to do with that, having ridden in the carriage with him and seen his mounting tension. Erik found his bedchamber, placed his mother's daguerreotype on the small table next to the bed and sent about discovering the quickest and most secretive paths from that room to the nearest pianoforte.

As he sat before it the simple act of running his hands over the beloved keys brought him a great measure of release. Christine would arrive the next day and with her, he could set about discovering what this new life would demand of him. For now, he needed to lose himself in his music and lock away the intrusive world. He played long into the night. When he finally gave in to sleep's demands and took himself to bed, it was through a dark and silent house. But when he awoke, he heard sounds that told him the day had started long before. He'd never been a slave to the dictates of the sun; until Christine, light had never reached his caves. Now, he must adjust to the world's schedule whether it suited him or not. Shaking his head, he prepared to find a meal and the music room once again. As he washed and dressed, he kept his sole mask before him.

Should he wear it? The Comte would rage as always, but this new household had not yet proven itself to Erik. With a sinking feeling of once again giving in to his fears, he slipped the ties over his head and fastened it in place. Then, with as much panache as he could mange while feeling shivers of the Comte's ire trained on his back, he found the kitchens, some food, and the pianoforte once again.

He sat and refreshed his mind as to the night's melodies, closed his eyes and ordered himself to forget the lure and the presence of the mask. He thought of Christine, let his longing for her fill his heart, his soul, his very being, 'til it flowed from his fingers into song. When he'd slacked his emotions somewhat, he poured his love into the words.

The mask's familiar weight soothed any lingering prickles that tinged across his shoulders. He might let down his guard a bit with his white shield in place. He'd worn it for years, oblivious to its limitations and now, after only a week and a few days without it, he realized he'd become more accustomed to the freedom a mask could not allow. Setting his teeth, he bent his head to the angle that afforded him a view of the score as well as the keys.

Within minutes the notes enraptured his thoughts and once again he imagined them soaring in Christine's voice. She'd turn this music from mere genius to a thing of exquisite beauty, a song worthy of angels, worthy of saints, worthy of submission to the very throne of—

"Erik!"

Startled, he dropped the pen, which left a trail of ink, thick as blood, across his pages. He resisted the urge to crumple them.

"Comte." Then, remembering, he recovered. "Father."

The word would never sit well in his mouth.

"Let me see your face."

Feeling as small and helpless as a child, he bent over the pianoforte. "A man with half your brain must have memorized it by now, as much time as you've spent studying it."

The Comte's bark of laughter did not relieve his guard. He dipped the pen without taking up more ink and poised it over the ruined page, as if contemplating his next note.

"Has Raoul not instructed you in manners? T'is rude to keep your back to one who addresses you."

With only the barest intake of breath he set down the pen and turned. Why his fear of this old man? He'd never raised his hand against anyone and if he had, who in the entire household could not best him?

The old man hobbled across the room, his cane clattering against the furniture in his anger. "Where did you get this thing, this—this abomination?"

Before Erik could pull away the Comte ripped the mask from his face. Trembling, he shook it. "How dare you bring this evil into my home? I forbade you to wear one. Who gave it to you? I'll have him sacked, flogged, do you hear me? Who was it?"

Erik lifted his chin and imagined the mask still in place. He needed every shred of stolen courage to stare the old man down. "I am comfortable with my mask." As he said it he recognized the tendril of lie in his words—the mask had not been comfortable; only the safety it afforded had been.

"And so you chose to face my ire rather than submit to a few non-existent stares?"

"The stares exist. Who can look on this with anything less than revulsion?"

"A father!" the Comte roared, then his voice gentled. "A father."

Erik stared at him, his reluctant fondness battling righteous anger. "Father," he whispered. "I need it."

With one furious motion, the Comte threw the mask into the fire. Erik jumped up and pushed past the old man to bend over the hearth, but the mask had already caught and curled at the edges, blackening. Smoke oozed from the eyepiece. Erik stood and turned on his father.

"How dare you! Do you know what it's like to live as I have? Do you know what it's like to be reviled?"

He clenched his hands, wanting more than anything to feel his father's neck between them, to feel his windpipe collapse under his thumbs, to watch the life drain from his eyes. To kill, again.

He ran from the room.


	10. Chapter 10

"Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness. . . Sometimes at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness, and it is as though a voice were saying, 'You are accepted.'"

Paul Johannes Tillich

Chapter Ten

Erik reeled away from the old man, his rage great enough that he could kill, again. Spears of black anger obscured his vision, letting in only occasional glimpses of the frightened Comte. He had never seen the powerful man terrified.

And in some recessed edge of his heart he felt, not the dominance, but fear and anguish. God help him, he did not want to kill again.

Spinning away, he found the door and pushed through. Philippe, bearing a tray with a letter, stepped back to let him pass. If he could not escape the house, someone would die and he would rather it not be at his hands.

He burst through the front door, left it standing wide, and loped down the wide steps. The sunlight hit him with a vicious glare, the air, scented with a faint whisper of roses and fresh damp from the recent rains, brushed his cheeks and he paused, aware he'd ventured outside alone for the first time since he had left the opera house. Alone, and unprotected, his mask among the ashes where the Comte had thrown it.

His thoughts could not keep pace with his feet, and he raced across the lawns toward a copse of trees. Once sheltered by the curtain of dripping leaves he thought to stop but couldn't—fear of his own rage drove him on. He pushed through underbrush that grew wilder and thicker. When at last his breath gave out, he stopped, propped his back against a tree and panted. How long had it been since he'd exercised more than to walk through the huge house? Since leaving the opera house he'd given up his daily trek from the bowels of the place to lurk about the rooms where the actors lived, where Christine lived, and he'd lost much of his tone. He bowed his head as memories of Christine filled his mind.

A child, crying, sobbing for the father who'd left her. A child, trusting, slipping into sleep on Erik's lullabies and taking comfort from his whispered words. Would he give all that up again for the short-lived satisfaction of submitting to his anger? And without the pall of the demons that had oppressed him, he knew the urges came from his own heart, and not something importuning from outside.

Physically, murder would be easy. But he would rather kill himself that take another life. Closing his eyes, Erik remembered Christine's panic when she realized he'd murdered Buquet. Her horror then as she recognized the demons inside him would be nothing to her terror now were he to give in. For Christine, for his own soul, he must learn to control his fury.

Once again he heard her fear; raspy sobs choked over words that beat against his heart. Like a child she begged for help, begged for her papa to come once again, to bring her Angel, to bring himself, the comfort of her father—

He pushed up from the ground, his eyes wide, and stared around the small clearing. The sobbing went on. This was no memory, but some other suffering creature. He heard the words; "Papa, Papa. . ."

Another child? He rose to his feet, habit equipping him with long-learned stealth, and followed the sound. At times, the music of living water overpowered the child's voice, and at times, he heard the voice alone. Within minutes he stood atop the bank of a young creek, full from the last rains, edged on the near side by boulders interspersed with tree roots, and on the other, by a meadow. A small boy sat in the water and clutched an outcrop of stone. Erik bent his head, wondering. The child must have been running, as he had been, but why had he plowed halfway across the creek? And why had he not, now he'd stopped, turned and waded out? He must have injured himself.

Bracing himself, Erik slid through the scree sloping toward the creek, scrambled over one of the smaller boulders and splashed into the water.

"Who's there?" the child called. He stiffened, half standing, his head turning toward Erik. "I hear you! Who are you?"

"A neighbor." Erik hesitated. Already frightened, when the child saw his face, he'd be terrified. Worse, disgusted. But what could Erik do? To leave the child would be murder as surely as tightening his fingers around his father's neck.

He closed his eyes, remembering—remembering the child who smiled at him, the day he'd left the opera house forever. Younger than this boy, that child hadn't turned away in fear. Perhaps this one also might not have learned to hate.

When he again looked, he saw the boy had turned toward his voice. His wide-set eyes never blinked; his head swayed like a kitten's, scenting for its mother. Erik sat back on his heels, studying him.

"Are you still there?" The child's voice shrilled with fear.

"I am. I'm coming to you. I'm a bit worried I'll dislodge the rocks and send them flying into your eyes." As he said the last word, he tipped his head, the better so see the boy's reaction.

"I don't want them to hit me."

"No. I'll be careful." Erik stood again, so he was nearly out of the boy's line of vision. "What is your name?"

"I'm Simon." Again, Simon's head wobbled as if he couldn't follow Erik's voice. "What's yours?"

"I am called Erik." Still, the name felt foreign in his mouth.

"Are you going to help me?"

"I am." Erik moved father away, stepped along the bank and turned, letting himself slid down the steep bank and into one of the less rocky areas of the stream. The cold of the water shocked him and he felt his ankle twist under his weight. Rather than risk a broken bone, he let himself fall. Only when his hands dug into the silt at the stream's bed did he struggle to his feet and stand. Over his own splashing he heard the boy calling, but chose not to answer until he made his way in front of the boy, and slightly below his eye level.

"You're going to have to let go of the rock if I'm to help you."

"No." Along with his stubborn refusal, the boy shook his head.

"Well, I can't carry a boulder and a boy at the same time. Here." Erik held out his hand. "You see, I won't let you drown. And the water comes only to my waist. You won't go under."

"No. I'm afraid. I heard you fall. I don't want to get water in my face."

"Of course you don't. I'll hold you high enough." Erik covered the boy's hands with his to pry them from the rock, bracing himself for any sudden moves. As soon as Simon felt his touch he released his hold on the rock and flung himself forward. Erik caught him under his arms and struggled to keep his balance. As soon as he was able, he crossed the stream and set the boy on the grass.

"Now. Tell me, young Simon, where have you come from?"

"Home."

"Home? And how is it you're unaccompanied on de Chagny lands?"

Erik sat next to Simon and removed his soaked shoes. Shaking his head, he leaned over to remove the boy's. Simon sat without moving as Erik pulled his ruined shoes from his feet.

"You won't wear those again," Erik said. "Were you running away?"

"No. Just—I ran."

"Do you know where you are now?"

"I am on de Chagny land! I'm not stupid, Monsieur Erik."

Erik chuckled. "No, you aren't at all, are you? But you were frightened and lost and neither one of us knows the way to your home."

Simon shrugged.

"Ah. You're just as glad to not go back there, then? But you can't stay here. So I must take you to—I will take you to where we can help you." He couldn't call the massive house his home.

He replaced his shoes and stood. "Can you stand?"

"Of course!" But Simon's mouth trembled and Erik felt a strange pity fill him. The poor child—as lost as Christine had been those many years ago, and as vulnerable as Erik had been.

"Here. Take my hand." Erik slid his palm under Simon's elbow and down his arm, so that by the time his hand reached the boy's, Simon was ready to grasp it. "But you can't wear those shoes, they're ruined. You must have been in the water a long time."

"Hours and hours." Simon stood, took a step and stumbled as one foot hit a clump of grass. Only Erik's grasp kept him from falling.

"I'll carry you. I'm going to turn my back to you and get on my knees, and you grab hold of my shoulders. You'll ride me like a horse." He watched Simon's face to ensure the boy understood what he was about to do, then let go of his hand and squatted. When Simon had a choke-hold on his neck, he stood.

He had carried many things in his lifetime, many much heavier than this child. But the flesh against his own skin felt as alien as his name. He had carried Christine once, and then—but that had been different.

After only a few steps he stopped, unable to draw a breath through the pressure of Simon's hold. "I'm going to pull you around," he told Simon. "I'll still carry you, but if I can hold you with one arm, perhaps you won't feel the need to strangle the life out of me."

Simon agreed and wriggled as Erik shifted him.

"I could walk if I had shoes on," Simon said.

"I'm sure you could."

"I'm eight, and I'm a vicomte. What are you? Are you a servant?"

Erik felt his lips twitch. "No. I am a vicomte also."

"Are you a second son like me, or is your father alive?"

His father. Erik inhaled so sharply he couldn't let the breath out again. His father. Remembered rage filled his throat with bile and shame conquered his heart. "Yes, he's still alive. He's at the house where I'm taking you."

"Your home."

Rather than answer, Erik settled the boy on his hip and forged ahead. A light breeze flattened his shirt to his skin, cooling it, and lifted the strands of his hair to cover his eyes. He brushed them away and glanced at Simon. The boy, nestled against Erik's right side, seemed to stare past Erik's face—past the ravaged deformity which Erik had presented to him. Erik had been right—the boy was blind.

Easier to worry about the boy, he thought, than to consider what his father would do when he returned to the house. Perhaps the boy would be a foil there, too, and distract the old man until his temper cleared. Though perhaps Erik ought to scour the countryside looking for Simon's home, and put off the inevitable. He chuckled. Yes, that would get him out of one sort of trouble and into another still worse.

"Are you laughing at me, Monsieur Erik?"

"No, Simon. I was thinking of my father."

Simon sighed, his head dipping closer to Erik's shoulder. "Is he funny, then?"

"Sometimes. He's—he likes to get his own way."

"So do I. And Mademoiselle LaTour scolds and tells me not to be selfish. But adults can be as selfish as they want. I wish I were an adult."

"Do you?" Erik remembered the same longing. He'd wanted, with every fiber of his being, to be large enough and strong enough, and invulnerable enough, to pay the entire world back for the thousands of hurts he'd endured. And he very nearly had gotten his wish. Taking a deep breath, he hitched Simon higher and hiked up the rise. Beyond that lay the de Chagny home.

As he approached the house, he thought of Christine again, and realized she'd been calling to him, calling in his mind, for some minutes.

_Angel. Angel? Erik!_

He stopped. _Christine? My Angel._

"Who is Christine?" Simon asked.

Erik stared at the boy, shocked. "Did I speak her name aloud?"

Simon frowned. "I heard you. Who is she?"

He released his breath. "The woman I love."

Simon rested his head on Erik's shoulder, all the fight and fear gone out of him. "Then I love her, too."

_Angel. I'm here._


	11. Chapter 11

"The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again."  
Charles Dickens

Chapter Eleven

Christine's first sight of him startled her. Mask-less, wigless, his hair dripped across his brow, his shirt sheeted against his body. She watched him stride to the top of a small rise, an equally wet child clamped to his hip. Too large to be unable to walk, the boy lay against Erik's shoulder as though he had given over every vestige of trust.

She'd forgotten her Angel's magnetism, the spark he possessed that drew her to him. Only her own weariness and Meg's hand on her arm stopped her from rushing to greet him. That and, she realized, a kind of shyness. She'd been alone with him half her life, but physically, only once. Now she needed to meld her knowledge of her Angel with this presence, bond the impressions into one man—one beloved man.

She knew when he saw her, as well. He stopped, but his smile answered hers. With a word to the child he set him on the ground, and Christine realized the boy's bare feet must have been the reason Erik carried him.

Philippe turned from a discussion with another manservant. "Ah, I see you have met our young neighbor. Vicomte Simon, have you been annoying Vicomte Erik?"

"No, I have not." The boy lifted his head, his fierce frown trained on Philippe. "We have—we have helped each other and now we are fast friends."

Several people standing nearby laughed, though Christine discerned no mocking in the sounds. Erik, however, bowed his head and tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder. When he raised it again he spoke to Philippe. "Simon has no shoes, Philippe. Can you ask Henri to find something for him?"

Philippe bowed and moved to the doors of the massive house.

_Angel?_ Christine thought and in return, felt a glow of contentment and love.

_Come to me._

As she approached him the world around her and the people who inhabited it disappeared. As always, the moment she sensed his presence she was lost to anyone or anything else.

"Christine." His awed voice barely above a whisper, he held his right hand out to her. Warm fingers enfolded hers but he made no move to draw nearer. On his face she saw the same overwhelming expression of wonder he'd worn the first time she'd seen him. "You came."

"I always will."

He nodded then, drawing her close. She waited for his embrace but he bent instead to press his mouth to her hand, his touch sending shivers through her body. Her eyelids grew heavy and she felt her entire being encompassed in his hand, delighting in his touch. As she watched him straighten a patina encased his head, as though the sun had joined with him in his brief embrace. Then, face to face, she forgot even the light, so rapt was she in his adoring eyes.

They had stared as fascinated with each other once before. How long ago, and when? She could not think with him so close. Nothing mattered but Erik and his love. And still, he gazed at her, captivated, and from his mind she heard only a melody that enchanted and threatened to overwhelm her.

Perhaps now, as before, she must be the one to initiate their kiss. She stroked his damp shoulder and pulled him toward her. His smile flickered then trembled as he met her lips.

She'd not been mistaken. This man, this love, completed her soul and his touch fired a primal need in her so strong it frightened her. She broke away to caress his beloved face, to trace the contours that once disturbed her but now endeared. "My Angel."

Now his kiss swallowed the words and she slid her hands behind his head as something pulled on her skirt. She ignored it but the insistent tugging grew fiercer. She broke away once again and rested her forehead on Erik's chest, feeling his breath catch in tumultuous gulps. When she could open her eyes she saw Simon, pressed against Erik's side and attempting to push her away.

"Simon." Erik swallowed and cradled his cheek against the crown of her hair.

The boy loosened his grip, tipping his face toward them.

"I know you're here, little one," Christine told him.

"You didn't! And you make Monsieur Erik forget me as well."

Erik's hand left her back and cupped Simon's head. "I haven't—haven't forgotten you. But I remember. . .Christine—" The devotion in his eyes astounded her. His lips trembled and she knew he meant to kiss her again, but Simon's interruption had alerted her to the many people around them.

"The others," she whispered.

"Be damned," he finished for her, and at her gasp, half shock and half laughter, he pulled away, shaking his head. "No, I don't mean—oh, Christine, you render me speechless."

"Not enough, I think. Remember the child."

Christine saw a sort of horror pass over Erik's face, and at first she thought her reminder came too late for his comfort, but then she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Now that you've greeted one guest, shall we make them all welcome?"

Christine spun to stare at Raoul, standing at his ease beside Meg and Madame Giry, and the world rushed in on her again.

"Raoul! You _are_ here."

Raoul's eyes narrowed, whether in pain or in anger, she could not fathom. "This is my father's estate. Did you not see our name above the gate?"

Before she could answer she felt Erik slip from her. She turned to see him hoist the boy in his arms and in her mind she felt his reassurances. _I will explain, my Angel. I will tell you all I have learned this past week and more._

Aloud, he said, "Please, you must come in and rest from your long journey." He raised his voice to include the Girys and Leonie. Christine stepped aside to allow him surer footing as he ascended the steps.

The Comtesse appeared at the doors. "Christine, my dear." She greeted the others, accepted an introduction to Leonie, and turned to Erik. "Simon, what has happened to you?"

"I fell in the creek and now my shoes are ruined. Monsieur Erik said they went bad from being in the water too long. I'm glad I'm not made of leather, to swell and split my seams."

Christine watched Erik's shoulders shake, and it grew more pronounced as Simon added, "And I'm glad those were my new shoes and not my boots. I _like_ my boots."

This child would be very good for her Erik, Christine decided, if he afforded so much amusement. She hoped he would prove a frequent visitor. "You have a lot to be glad about," she told him, and at that both Erik and Simon laughed.

"I do, I am," Simon called. "Monsieur Erik—"

"Pardon." Philippe interrupted. "Vicomte Picard, please, he is a Vicomte as you are, and you must address him so."

At Philippe's use of Erik's title, a shock of recognition pierced Christine. Philippe had called him this once before, and though she'd heard, she hadn't realized. He now possessed a name, why should she not think him to possess a title as well? But which title, which lineage?

_I_ will _explain, Christine._

She nodded and lifted her skirts to follow the others into the house. Raoul still watched her, but as she looked up his expression hardened and his face shadowed. Because he refused to meet her eyes she tried to reach him with her mind, much as she spoke to Erik, to reassure him or give him some sort of comfort. He'd let her in before.

_I doubt he can hear you now, Christine. He has locked me out as well._

Christine let her gaze flicker to Erik and back to Raoul. The younger man turned away and his message to Christine hurt more than she'd expected. He had once been a friend, and then more than a friend—confidant, protector, love, and now, he would be nothing to her.

Madame Giry swept inside with great aplomb, and Leonie followed, a handful of the woman's dress clutched in her fist. Meg, seldom fearful but now, a bit nervous, Christine thought, followed as well, chattering.

"We thought the rain would follow us here and settle in over our heads forever. We thought we'd never see the light of the sun again."

She turned and the afternoon glow caressed her cheeks and tinged them with a soft bloom. Raoul smiled at her prattle and Christine found herself wishing he might fall in love with her friend. If his heart healed, perhaps he could forgive her, and she would have none of this emptiness threatening her.

Erik motioned for Christine to precede him and as she stepped through the door into the de Chagny mansion, she heard Raoul murmur, "And yet, even when the sun shines, some of us can never see the light."

In astonishment she turned to stare, but he only shook his head.

IIIII

Once inside Erik let Simon walk, though he kept a guiding hand clasped around the boy's. He wanted only to look at Christine, to speak with Christine, to hold Christine—and yet, such a mass of humanity surrounded them that he felt the separation to be as vast as the abyss of darkness that had divided them before.

_Before you chose me, I lived in an absence of light and truth and love._

_But I chose you, _she answered.

_Yes, you chose me._ He closed his eyes at the wonderment of her love. _And you have made all the difference._

The Comtesse once again greeted the newcomers and welcomed Christine with a kiss on each cheek. Erik delighted to see how much love his step-mother held for Christine—the world should love her!—even his father ought to love her. How could he avoid being charmed?

His father. He sighed and his hand tightened around Simon's as he watched the Comte greet the guests. He gave the same courtesy to Leonie, who boasted the appearance of a gutter-rat, as he gave to Madame Giry. When the only friend Erik had ever known curtsied to his father, Erik felt his heart swell with pride. Now perhaps he could repay her for all she'd given him—as if a man could ever repay for his own life. Still, here, away from the decay of the opera house, from the turmoil of Paris, he might have a chance to show her what her care meant to him.

The Comtesse turned to him then, and bent to take Simon's free hand. "My little Vicomte, how good to see you again. Henri will come to take you to his quarters. His son is your size, and has agreed to loan you a set of dry clothing and footwear. After our meal, Henri will drive you home. We have already dispatched a messenger to assure your family that you are safe."

"I want Erik to take me."

"No, Simon. I.."

With great gentleness she brushed her hand across Erik's arm, silencing him. "We shall see. The Vicomte Erik is often busy, you see, and it was only your guardian angel who brought him to you in that creek today. He is a composer, and spends much time with his music." She straightened. "I think you must listen to the young vicomte play before we send him home, Erik; you will be impressed."

Erik studied the top of the boy's head. Another musical prodigy set before him? Henri bore Simon off and he looked up to find the Comtesse still beside him. "His parents dote on him," she said. "But they do not know how to raise the child to be anything but blind. He will never grow up, because his inability to see blinds them. They don't see his intelligence or his need for a teacher; instead, they see something akin to an animal."

She must have seen his fury for she gripped his arm. "I don't mean they abuse him, Erik. He is not treated as you were, but as though he will forever be a babe, to be fed on milk and pap."

By that time the Comte's greetings had finished and she invited the four guests to follow her to their chambers. As she passed the Comte, he heard her say, "Erik must change, my dear. He drips a bit and he must be uncomfortable."

The Comte nodded but when Erik made to pass him he blocked his way with his cane. "My son—"

He looked down and away and Erik thought, with some bewilderment, perhaps he is as frightened of my temper as I am of his. And well he should be. I am, after all, a murderer. And it cannot be easy to endure change at his age.

"Erik, I'm not opposed to the mask per se, but to your dependence on it."

Emotions warred for the upper hand and Erik felt his body must be reeling with the shock, but he closed his eyes and commanded his mind to be still. Slowly, the room came to a halt, and he was able to breathe once again. Habit would have him hate the autocratic old man, but a wild compassion and something more which he could not name refused to hate.

"I understand, Father." He met the Comte's gaze. "It frightens me, as well." And the cost to his pride in admitting that would beggar him.

But his father showed no sign of triumph. He held Erik's gaze for a long moment, as illumination flickered in his eyes. "If you would leave it off at home, then I will not oppose it out among company."

"This is a questionable point, is it not? You burnt it."

"And you can make another."  
Flummoxed, Erik let a smile quirk the good side of his mouth. "As you say."

"Yes, as I say, indeed. So tonight, you dine with the family and our guests mask-less, and tomorrow, you may wear it as we attend Mass."


	12. Chapter 12

"If you can speak what you will never hear, if you can write what you will never read, you have rare things."

-Henry David Thoreau

Chapter Twelve

Erik had picked up his share of manners just in watching others and now, he sat at table with his family without fear of offending by his actions, at least. His face, possibly his words, though, he couldn't guarantee.

The Comte sat at the head of the table to Erik's right, with Meg Giry placed between them. A chatterer, he knew, but a tolerable one, and Christine loved the girl. He felt her eyes on him and just managed not to raise his hand. But every second that passed was another battle to keep himself from hiding his face. The girl said not a word, and Erik wondered if sitting next to the infamous, murderous opera ghost had rendered her speechless.

Simon sat to Erik's left and beyond him sat Madame Giry, then the Comtesse at the foot of the table. Across from Erik sat Raoul, with Leonie between him and the Comtesse, and Christine on his left. Erik watched a nerve jump in his brother's clenched jaw as he avoided any conversation with Christine; instead, he devoted his mealtime to instructing the young girl on his other side. He's a natural teacher, Erik thought, and then, perhaps it's a family trait.

He looked across to Christine, met her gaze and felt his fragile hold on sanity strengthen. Her presence made this noisy gathering bearable. He wondered idly if anyone had thought to produce a rule of conduct for a man sitting to a meal with his intended wife, while his brother, jilted by that same intended, sat next to her. He wondered at the seating arrangements. Surely the Comtesse could not be so cruel to her beloved son.

He missed a comment directed to him by the Comte, but sensed his faux pas and turned to apologize when Simon, fumbling around his dinner setting, splashed water across Erik's arm.

"Don't be frightened," he soothed as Simon shrank back from him. "Here, let me show you where everything is." He took the boy's hands and listed each utensil or food item as he touched Simon's fingers to them. "The food is cut for you. And your water is here, just beyond. Have a care, I've bathed twice now for your pleasure."

Simon laughed and Madame Giry looked over, meeting Erik's eyes above Simon's dark head. In her eyes he saw the same pity she'd shown him more than twenty years before and he wanted to lash out, to force her to keep her crippling compassion to herself. He looked away from it, down at Simon, then up again as he mastered himself. He said, "Cecile," then could think of nothing else to say.

She smiled though, and tipped her head in the way he'd become so familiar with. Perhaps he knew more of humanity's habits than he suspected. "Erik. Or I should call you Vicomte Erik—"

"No, please, I've had enough with capricious names."

"_I_ have to call him that," Simon said with great resentment.

Erik laughed. "Madame Giry is an old friend. I cannot require her to address me in so formal a manner."

Simon jabbed his fork at his plate and on his third try speared a morsel of meat. "Everything is different for me, because I'm blind."

The fear that shook Erik astounded him. Dear God, he recognized the self-pity. He'd wallowed in his own long enough for it to have become a second soul, and now, this child spouted it so readily, with such careless anger. The knowledge that those around him, by virtue of his presence, lay themselves open to influences they might not believe in or fight caught in his throat and made eating impossible. He drained the wine glass before him and bent to hiss at the boy, "You don't want to feel so sorry for yourself, Simon. It destroys, it kills. It will tear apart everything you love and make those who love you come to hate you."

The child turned his face to Erik, confusion written large across it. Around his back, Madame Giry reached to touch Erik's arm. "He doesn't understand," she said. "You must teach him to live what you want him to know. You must show him by living."

"I must teach the world, then."

Again, she tipped her head. "Perhaps you shall."

A familiar gurgle of laughter interrupted them and he heard Christine point out to Meg that the rain had indeed followed them. "And now it's pounding at the window."

Talk of the weather reminded Erik of Raoul's comment. He'd said something to Christine, the only time the entire afternoon that he'd given Christine any notice at all, about not seeing the sun. What had he meant?

Raoul leaned back in his chair, his wine glass tipped at a careless angle in his fist, and stared at the wall behind Erik, or perhaps at something no one else could see. Erik felt a chill run down his spine and vowed that while he would teach Simon as much as he could, he would not let his brother—this young man whom he had hated enough to kill only two weeks previously—fall prey to the horrors he had only just escaped.

I I I I I

Although Erik had promised an explanation, Christine hadn't found a chance alone with him, and her curiosity grew with each moment. She studied the Comte, who looked at her Angel with equal amounts of affection and exasperation. They'd called him Vicomte but she'd heard no surname and manners forbade her to ask. Maman knew, she was sure. She watched the exchange between Madame Giry and Erik, and delighted at their easy conversation. He reveled in his silence as much as in his music. Life among others ate at his self control and she'd learned to have little faith in that control at the best of times. But he'd promised her. He'd promised, and like her father's promise, she believed in Erik's with all her heart. He would not give in to the darkness again, regardless of the sorrows and irritations that came his way, and she would do everything in her power to help him keep his promise.

When the Comtesse led the women to the drawing room, Leonie lingered, peering back over her shoulder. "Why must we leave them? Men are more interesting than girls."

"Leonie!" Meg gasped and Madame Giry drew the girl aside. The Comtesse invited Christine to sit with her on a long settee and Meg joined them, as sure as Christine that she would receive the backlash of her mother's lecture should she attempt to eavesdrop.

"Another ignorant soul," the Comtesse said. "I think Erik will find himself inundated with students."

"Erik?"

"He needs students and they need a strict teacher. From what you have told me, and from what I have seen, my step-son is the perfect match to these two."

Christine closed her eyes. _So it's true. You _are_ the Comte's son. But how?_

_Soon, Christine. I will explain._

He'd promised that so many times that afternoon and Christine could barely contain her impatience. In a huff she blocked him from her thoughts and still felt the warm glow of his amusement.

Comtesse de Chagny placed her hand on Christine's knee. "I have asked Simon to play for Erik when the men join us. Perhaps you can ready the pianoforte for him?" She indicated the instrument in prominent place on the other side of the room.

Christine rose and while she moved the music scores she listened to the murmur of the Comtesse and Meg chatting and Leonie defending herself to Madame Giry. All the while, the one person she wanted to be with sat in a room just feet away from her and she couldn't go to him, could only yearn for him. She opened her mind to him in a rush and found him waiting, with equal longing.

_Soon, Christine. Soon._

I I I I I

Always before, Erik had taken his leave of the men with the women, anxious for solitude. Now he waited for his father to signal the time to rejoin the women, but couldn't bear the company. He wanted Christine, and knowing they once again shared a roof however separated they might be by conventions, threatened to destroy his fragile sense of self-control.

"Erik, be still," his father growled, which sent Simon into a fit of giggles. The Comte gave the boy an exasperated look, then continued. "You will see her soon enough. Tell me how you met young Simon?"

"He fell in the creek. I heard him."

"And so you helped him." Though his father must have attempted to keep his voice even, Erik heard his disbelief. Was he such a selfish creature that any small act of kindness would bring great surprise?

"Is that wrong? Are we to leave our neighbors' children to die in these situations?"

"Erik." Raoul looked up from his contemplation of the dying fire and Erik met his censure with his own fury.

"I am not ignorant, please," he said.

"You are very smart, Vicomte Erik," Simon said. "You found me and pulled me out and carried me here. And you are very kind, as well."

Erik stopped his pacing in front of the boy. "Would you like to walk about? I would guide you." He kept his voice low.

Simon slid off the settee and reached out. Erik took his hand and positioned him to his side and in front.

"Where are you taking him?" the Comte asked.

"To walk. He's a child, he can't enjoy sitting still for hours on end."

Raoul shrugged. "He must learn."

Some things, Erik thought, ought not to be learned. And Simon already knew his share of wrongdoing.

As they made a second turn around the room, he felt his longing for Christine grow so strong he knew it could only be both his own needs and hers combined. He had to catch his breath, and Simon waited with un-childlike patience.

As Erik once again tugged Simon forward, the boy said, "The Comtesse wishes me to play for you, but Henri told me you are brilliant. I am not. How could I be? I can't read the notes. But I play what I hear."

"As do I," Erik told him. "I hear music in my soul and I let it bleed through my fingers and onto the keys."

"Then I'll play for you." Simon raised his voice. "Comte, when do we go to the women? I want to play the pianoforte for my friend."

"Now," the Comte said and rose. He glared at Erik as he hobbled past. "Did you tell him to ask?"

Erik laughed.

I I I I I

Simon settled himself on the stool and tested a few keys, then repositioned his hands. Looking on, Erik noted he held his hands well and exhibited proper posture. He had been taught the rudiments, that much was certain.

As Simon played, a simple melody that might have been a dance or celebratory anthem, Erik closed his eyes. Somewhat lacking in technique, he thought, and I must devise a way for him to see music, if not in reality, at least through his hands. But he would not turn down the chance to work with the boy's talents. For the first time in months he felt again the pleasure and power he'd treasured as Christine's tutor. Hers was an incredible gift, Simon's perhaps not as strong, but the music was what mattered, after all.

Too soon, the Comtesse stopped the boy. "Henri is ready to take you to your home, Simon. But you may come back if you have permission. Do not run away again or I will not let Vicomte Erik teach you."

Pouting, Simon hung his head. Erik knelt next to him.

"Simon, you told me you hadn't run away."

Simon's shoulders lifted and fell, and his mouth pinched in pain.

"I want to teach you. But I demand exacting obedience. And you will not ever lie to me again. I cannot abide lies."

"I will obey, Erik, I promise. I promise!"

I I I I I

"And now, Erik, you must play for the company," the Comtesse told him.

Shocked, he stared first at his step-mother and then at the pianoforte. Playing in front of others—could he? He'd just accepted it of Simon, to be sure, but no one had ever asked him. The act seemed most intimate, something reserved for lovers. He had played only for Christine and would never hesitate if she were alone with him, but for the rest—he could as much share his music with them as he could invite them to his wedding night.

And yet. . . he looked to her. _Do I play? Will you sing?_

In answer, she rose to stand behind him and waited for him to find the sheets he wanted, her hand on his shoulder. Though he heard no words from her, he felt a wash of her reassurance and joy.

As always, he gave her the melody as he played, and joined his voice with hers.

You gave your heart to the beggar

Whose pride is clothed in rags

You trusted the liar before you

and gave his life to him.

And I don't know why

But I thank God for your love.

I'll keep it in a sacred place

And I pray, oh I pray

I won't let you cry.

You won't let me cry,

I fly to you on wings made of promises

Fly to you on your tenuous hold

You carry my love in the heart of eternity

And I pray, oh I pray

I won't let you cry.

When they finished, the others made no comment. Erik looked around. Raoul bent over his hands clasped above his knees, as though the prayer were his as well. The Comtesse rose, holding out her hand as though to speak, but she could not seem to find words. Erik leaned close enough to Christine to feel her skirt brush his cheek and peered up at her. She smiled down at him, unmindful of her stunned audience.

"My son." The Comte rose as well and hobbled near the pianoforte, but stopped a few feet away and looked upon Erik and Christine as though he looked upon the shining ones. "My son, Mademoiselle. I never knew. . . ."

Meg held Leonie from pouncing and Madame Giry, his unflappable friend, stared with her mouth agape. "I think," she finally whispered, "I think I begin to understand."


	13. Chapter 13

It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper; so cry away.

Charles Dickens

Chapter Thirteen

The Comtesse gathered together her needlework and as if by some unspoken order, Madame Giry and the two younger girls collected their things as well. When neither Raoul nor the Comte made any move to accompany them, she glared at her son. "Raoul, be so kind as to escort Miss Giry and Leonie to the atrium."

"At this time of night? It will be pitch dark—"

"And you, my dear husband, will walk with Madame Giry and me."

"And why should I do that?"

"It is time we give Erik and Miss Daaé their privacy."

She hustled the other five from the room in a short time and Erik turned, finally, to Christine. He reached for her hands and for the first time that day he didn't feel the necessity to keep his right hand free, lest he must guard his face. He felt safe in her presence, and an overwhelming awe.

"Christine."

She smiled and stepped closer, lifting her face.

"If I kiss you now, I'll forget everything I mean to say to you."

"You won't. You have the best memory of anyone I've known."

"It slips these days. I endure too many distractions.'

She pressed her hands against his chest. To step away would speak unforgivable rejection, to remain as he stood meant capitulation.

"Christine—" His voice cracked with his struggle.

"My Angel, what more have you to say? I'm the one who has not yet told you—in words—" She freed one hand to brush his marred cheek, from under his eye up to his scalp where she threaded her fingers in his hair. "I love you."

"Yes, my love, I know."

"And so words are not needed."

He caught her hands again and held them against his chest, keeping her close and yet no closer. "A song without lyrics can't be sung."

Her smile faltered. "Sometimes I'm afraid of the lyrics, afraid of what you'll ask—of why I—"

"I'll not ask anything wrong. This I promise."

"No." Now Christine pulled away, turning as if she feared to meet his eyes. "Erik, I'm afraid you'll ask me why I removed your mask and that, when I tell you, you won't understand my reasons."

So she had heard his unspoken plea. "Tell me, then. I think I'll understand more than you give me credit for."

Again she caressed his chest, more in pleading and less in seduction. "If you listen to me with your heart, perhaps we shall weather the conversation."

"You wish that I should lay aside my intellect?"

She nodded.

"Very well, I will try. I can't promise more than that."

"It is enough."

She paced a few feet then turned, motioning him to once again seat himself before the pianoforte. He did so and watched her over his shoulder.

"That night—the night I spent in your bed, where did you sleep?"

He felt his mouth quirk in a reluctant smile. "Why do you think I could have slept? Christine, for the first time in my life a woman shared my home." He shrugged. "I spent the night watching you breathe, worshipping the beauty of your face and the glory of your trust, half longing for you to wake and half wishing the night would never end."

"And after that you composed a song."

"I. . .did not. My soul—my soul brought it to life for you."

She advanced on him, grasped his shoulders to turn him away from her. "I wanted to see what you needed to hide. I _knew _my genius, my tutor, my Angel, but I wanted to see his face. And so—"

As she had on that long ago night, she caressed his face. Remembered ecstasy coursed through him and as before, he swayed with the joy of her touch.

"I saw almost nothing—you fled my eyes so quickly, and yet, I remember every detail in perfect clarity."

"And then I railed at you. I'm so sorry—"

"No, Erik. What would have happened if I hadn't stolen your protection from you? You would never have told me how you really felt, never have revealed the truth. All the lies—I stripped them away along with the mask."

"Christine—"

She went on with relentless fervor, as though she needed to spread each of his sins against her before him. "I would never have handed it back, and never watched you secure it over your face like ill-fitting armor."

He turned, his mouth agape.

"I would never have seen the darkness that oppressed you, nor would I have known that you had chosen me to free you."

He bowed his head, shamed. Now, she would turn away and leave him. Now, she would laugh at his hubris in believing for a moment that a soul as twisted as his could earn the love of an angel. Now, his life as well as his music would end.

"I love you, my Angel. I always have."

Now, as before, she waited for him to meet her eyes, his own spilling his pain and fear and joy. "I don't deserve your love."

"Perhaps not. Do you believe I must love you on merit alone?"

He whispered, "No."

"I wanted my Angel to see without the filter of the mask."

"But I couldn't."

"Then." She cupped his chin and he let her raise his face.

"Christine, you nearly destroyed me."

Sobbing, she cried out, "No! I wanted you to _see_!"

Recognition spread across his face as he took her in his embrace. "And I understand now. I don't wear the mask, do I?"

Choking on a half laugh, half sob, she said, "Your father burnt it."

He threw his head back, laughing as well. "He did. But even if I he had not, I could not wear it with you." With her so close to his heart, he understood the power this woman-child held over him—if she so chose, she _could_ destroy him, with a single word, or with no words at all. He looked into her eyes with as much trust as he could muster, and knew that, although she could destroy him, she would not.

His love for her led his actions now, not fear or bravado. He caressed her face as she had his, her clear skin, eyes bright with ardor, and tangled his fingers in her curls. Like her voice to his heart, her hair entrapped his hand and he knew no desire to free it.

"I love you, mind, body and soul. I am yours—your slave."

"And I am yours."

When she slipped her hand around his neck to pull him closer he could no longer deny her. He brushed his lips across her skin and breathed the scent of her, a heady mixture that threatened to buckle his knees.

She turned to create a kiss from his caress and he sought the same creation, meeting her passion with a blinding burst of his own, drinking her ocean of love in gulps that wanted to consume the sea.

Instinct guided him but the Comtesse's unspoken trust in his propriety guarded him. He would not betray his Angel with lust.

And because of that he broke away far sooner than he wanted. She gaped at him, her eyes heavy and confused. He tipped his head to rest his marred cheek against her hair, marveling in its buoyant silk.

_Christine, you have enraptured me, enslaved me. But I cannot bring this further._

After a long minute he felt her sigh against his chest. _Angel, I know we must wait, but you must be the one to be strong. I have never felt this and I doubt I can control my love._

Swallowing, knowing Raoul refused to hear him, still Erik searched for him with his mind. _Well, my brother, will you be able to teach me the restraint I need and keep yours as well?_


	14. Chapter 14

"Grace is that unseen sound that makes you look up."  
Anne Lamott

Chapter Fourteen

Meg crept into Christine's room that night, whispering that Christine must light a candle.

"The fire gives enough light," Christine told her, sleep slurring her words.

"But I have something to show you."

Meg's urgent voice woke Christine further. She slid from the bed, grateful for the thick rug on the floor that protected her feet from the cold, though the chill in the air fought against the warmth of the fire. Taking a new candle, she dipped its wick into the flames and raised it to study her friend's face. Worry puckered lines between her eyes and Christine placed her hand on Meg's shoulder. "What is it?"

Meg held out a bundle, white on white, the cloth falling away to reveal the leather. "I found it after. . .when everyone went looking for him to kill him."

"And you took it?" Christine meant no censure but she saw by the look in Meg's eyes that Meg hadn't understood.

"Not to steal it!"

"No, I didn't think so." Christine touched the edge of the cloth. Candlelight gilded the leather curves and flickered in and out of its shadows, so much that she imagined she saw Erik's eye behind it. She shuddered and held the candle away from it.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I don't know. I was afraid. I thought you'd be angry." And then, as though Christine's silence prodded her confession, "I was with them, while they hunted him. I meant no harm, Christine, I swear. I wanted to help you—help him. But I didn't know how and then—you—everyone was gone." She looked up, anguish clear in her expression. "I could not have stopped the mob, but I didn't join them, either."

"I don't blame you for their actions. I'm glad you wanted to help him."

"I will if he needs me. That's why I showed you now. The Comte burned his other and I thought you could give it to him."

Christine closed her eyes. "Meg, I returned his mask once and I will never do so again. If you want him to have it, give it to him yourself."

"Me?"

"Are you afraid of him?"

Christine watched Meg's face, saw the battle between honesty and bravado and smiled when truth won out.

"I am, a bit. They sat me next to him and I could barely speak for my awe."

"He won't hurt you."

"But—"

Christine waited. Meg closed her mouth on her words. What had she been about to say? But he has a frightening face? He is the great and fearful Opera Ghost? He is a murderer?

"He is only a man, Meg, and he might be glad of this. If you think he has need of it, you must be the one to give it to him."

"Well, then." Meg wrapped the mask again and lifted her chin. "I will. He won't intimidate me next time; I won't be frightened."

Christine extinguished the candle and set it on the lamp stand. "To bed now, it's very late."

"Christine. May I stay with you tonight? Maman would laugh if I asked and Leonie yells in her sleep, she fights all night long and calls horrible names."

Christine fought down her own laughter and soon she and Meg once again shared secrets until neither could stay awake.

I I I I I

He poured his passion into a series of compositions so complicated and powerful he feared no musician but he would be able to perform them. He played long into the night, imagining Christine singing the words that often had him prowling the room with unspent energy.

Only as a tinge of morning dulled the candlelight did he realize he'd spent another night defying his body's natural rhythm. He stumbled through passages to his room, met Henri just outside his door and asked that he not be disturbed until he'd slept his fill. Then he fell across his bed, fully clothed, and sleep met him in an instant.

I I I I I

When he awoke he stared at the bed hangings for a moment before reaching across as he always did, for the mask. But he remembered before his hand touched the side table that he wouldn't find it, and sat up.

Heavy hangings over the windows once again blocked the light, and the fire from the previous night had died. He rose to pull the dark drapery away.

A late afternoon sun bathed him in warmth and he raised his face, eyes closed, to welcome it. When had he become such a friend of the light? A sudden revelation brought him to his knees: he had renounced the dark when he left the bowels of the opera house, but he had replaced it with emptiness, fear and a longing for his Angel. Now, the light called to him once again and he could answer, he wanted to answer, he wanted the light.

_Dear God_. But he could pray no further. He knew of prayer, but had seldom explored it; longed for it but had run from it in dread. He needed its healing comfort but knew not, even now, how to make himself worthy of God's notice.

But he could ask. He dressed and went looking for his family.

I I I I I

He met Raoul just outside the conservatory. Raoul looked him up and down as though he'd dressed himself wrong; he knew he hadn't.

"Did you just wake?"

"Yes, last night I—I was composing."

"Of course. The entire household knows you compose. I think you might consider Father's feeling a bit more. You promised to attend Mass and he is. . .displeased."

Erik looked away from his brother. "I forgot, Raoul. But I know I need to adjust my hours to that of others. I will try."

He didn't like the feeling of censure from the younger man, but supposed he deserved the guilt Raoul inspired.

Raoul turned away. "It's no matter, Erik. You must live your life as you please. You've told me this often enough."

Erik followed him to the dining room where the rest of the family gathered in the process of seating themselves for the evening meal. "Raoul—"

Raoul moved farther into the room, then turned. "Yes?"

"I would like to talk to you later."

"Yes? And why is that? Can we not talk at table? We are seated across from each other."

"I prefer a bit more privacy."

Again Raoul shrugged and Erik frowned. Why the boy's dismissive attitude? He treated Erik with the same arrogance he'd shown Christine when she'd first told him of the Phantom.

"Very well. After we eat, then? Or am I to give up the meal to your caprice?"

"No, of course not."

Puzzled, Erik hurried to his own place. Meg, again to his right, attempted a smile. He returned it and saw a miniscule amount of relaxation in her stance. She leaned closer.

"I—may I—after—after—?"

Now what could she want, as frightened as she seemed?

"Meg?" He fought his own disinclination to lean close enough to see her lowered eyes.

"Nothing." Her glance flickered to Christine and he saw his beloved give her a small shake of the head.

_My love?_

_I will explain if she does not._

As the attendants served their food, he turned to Madame Giry on his left. "Cecile." But again he had nothing else in mind to tell her.

She smiled. "Erik. It is good to see you. I suggest you avoid your father's eye during the meal, as to possibly ensure a more peaceful time for all involved."

He nodded and looked across the table again.

_Christine, my love, my Angel._

_I missed you._

He took a deep breath as yet another song burst into his mind, fully formed. His fingers itched for a quill and parchment, for the keys and the music to meld into pure, audible joy. Christine must sing of this love, she must. He began to push his chair away from the table when his father growled his name.

"Erik, you disappointed me."

"I?" He turned to face the head of the table. "Yes, I—I slept. I am not accustomed to conforming myself to daylight hours."

"You have managed so far to conform to other lenient demands I place upon you. But I would think your presence—your first—at Mass would be uppermost in your mind."

"I was composing. In fact, I have yet another song I wish to write before—"

"But you will not, because you would not be so rude as to leave the rest of the family."

A murmur from the Comtesse interrupted but the Comte overrode her.

"Erik, you have a responsibility to discharge every day that you live. You are no longer alone, I would think in your gratitude to those who have rescued you and protected you, you might at the very least attempt some good sort of comportment."

He felt Cecile make a sudden movement beside him, as if to ward off or cast a spell, but he kept his eyes on his father, holding the man's gaze as fiercely as he held his own temper.

The Comte glared back, this time showing no fear, and his sneer spoke volumes. Erik, even as unused to others as he was, read his message.

"I am not a child."

"No, of course you are not." Again, the Comtesse broke in. "Florentin, please, do not disturb the meal for the sake of winning some argument. If you have issue with Erik, you must take it up with him at another time."

The Comte broke from Erik's gaze. "Seraphime, my dear—"

"We have decided to hold a ball, Erik," the Comtesse went on. "Of course, the men feel it is an imposition on their time, but it is only their pocketbooks I will inconvenience, I assure you."

Raoul looked up at that. "Mother—"

"No, I will listen to no more urging. We are to have a wedding soon, and for that, we must plan a ball."

"Mother—"

"I think—three weeks from tomorrow. That will give us enough time to send invitations and have dresses made. Christine and Meg and Leonie must be gowned to their best advantage—"

Meg gasped and Leonie jumped up so her chair fell against the servant standing behind her. He righted it and held it while she seated herself again, red-faced.

"Mother, the time couldn't be worse. France is in revolt—"

"Pfft! Only in Paris. Here in the country we have no worries. Our servants are loyal and would never wish to jeopardize their places with us. They are like family!"

Erik looked beyond Leonie to meet the man's eyes. He would not wish to put such trust in a man whose name he didn't know.

"Christine, surely you must be quite excited by this." The expression on the Comtesse's face bordered on fond indulgence.

"Your grace—"

The Comte took up the discussion. "Seraphime, perhaps we will wait after all. I know I agreed—"

"And you will keep your word to me, Florentin. You said we might have a ball, and so we shall." Her tone made it clear to all that she would listen to no more arguments.

"Very well. Perhaps now, you will allow me to speak with my son—"

Erik felt Raoul look toward the Comte, felt his brother's shock as the old man looked, not at Raoul, but at Erik. That he meant to resume his censure would make no difference to Raoul, Erik was sure. The younger man seemed to have lost his place as son of the family, and for that alone, Erik felt he must hang his head in shame.

"You will attend Mass next week, yes? Do not give me an answer I will not like, Erik. The entire countryside knows my firstborn has returned to me and they wish to see you. Even if I must agree they will see you masked, see you they will."

Raoul stood, excused himself and strode from the room.

"Raoul! How dare you walk out on the family—"

"Father." Erik kept his voice as low as possible and still ensure the old man heard him. "Leave him his dignity, please. You have already given away his place in the family."

Silence settled over the diners as the Comte sank back into his chair. "His place?" he began, and then understanding suffused his face, turning him an unbecoming red. "But he will always be my son."

"But not your only son." Erik leaned past Meg, who stared at her plate in embarrassment. "Father, what has he left to him? You seem happy to give me all that has been his, with no thought to him."

"But he is my son!"

"Yes. Believe me, I have not once forgotten that."

I I I I I

The ensuing silence left Christine time to commune with Erik in privacy.

_Your poor father._

_Father? It's Raoul I worry for. _

_Because he has not eaten?_

_Because anger and envy eat at him. This must stop._

Not long after, the Comtesse once again engaged Madame Giry and the girls in discussion of the upcoming ball. As excited as Leonie and Meg, Christine laughed at Madame Giry's gentle teasing.

"We do know how to dance, your grace," she told the Comtesse. "We have been dancers all our lives!"

"I speak of country dances, of course. This is very different from what a chorus girl would know."

Appalled, Christine looked from Meg to Madame Giry. Her friend's face showed her understanding of the unintended insult, but Madame Giry's remained composed, as always.

"Mignon, no matter. You will prove your skill."

"Maman—"

The Comtesse broke in. "And you shall be a little belle at this magnificent ball. All three of you."

Her tone of voice warned against further discussion, and even Leonie knew enough to obey. Christine met Erik's eyes.

_She does not understand. _

_That is a pity, as I am to be her daughter-in-law!_

Such a feeling of his delight and longing filled her that she could eat no more, and saw that Erik had set down his fork and stared at her across the table. She read the music in his eyes as if he were teaching her once again, and nearly opened her mouth to pour forth his words. He stopped her with a slight shake of his head.

_Soon, my Angel. Soon, we will sing together. For now, my brother needs me. _

_Because anger and envy eat at him. You must help him._

I I I I I

But Erik was not the man to stop the direction of Raoul's feelings—or was he?

As soon as the women left the table, Erik excused himself to his father.

"You only think to avoid a scolding," the Comte spluttered.

"If you think to scold me, then you do not know me. I've no wish to become as a child again, to satisfy your need to parent me. I will return as soon as I am able."

He heard the Comte mutter about his "damned music" but refused to take the time to correct his impression.

Henri directed him to the stables and he found Raoul preparing to mount a horse.

"Out of my way," Raoul ordered. "Don't think I will spare you for your _father's _sake."

Erik grasped the halter to pull the horse's head down, preventing its progress. "He is your father as well."

"No longer."

"Raoul, he loves you." But what did Erik know of love? He saw the same question in Raoul's eyes. "You wonder how I know; you wonder if I simply parrot words whose meaning eludes me. But I understand, brother. I do. Christine has taught me, and others. Many others."

Raoul stared at him for a long minute before he shoved the halter into Erik's hand. "You cannot know—"

"Rejection?" Without waiting for an answer Erik led the horse back to the empty stall and removed the saddle and tack. He threw a handful of feed into the bin and pushed the latch shut behind him. Raoul stood where Erik had left him, head bowed, chest heaving.

"Who taught me compassion?" Erik asked, his voice as soft as if Raoul were a skittish horse. "Who taught me the value of continuing on when it seems one has nothing left to live for? Who taught me this? It could not have been a man who knows not the meaning of these things."

Raoul raised his chin. "I suppose I have not been tested, is that what you imply? I have not been made to prove myself and now that I must, I fail before I try."

"I think you have a new battle to fight, and you think it is against me. But I no longer war with you."

Sighing, Raoul nodded and trudged toward the house. Halfway there, he stopped. "Erik, you wanted to talk to me."

"Yes."

"Here we are. Here, in the dark night, we have all the privacy in the world."

As Raoul waved his hand Erik looked at the sky, at the stars he had only studied in illustrations. "With only God as our witness."

"Why bring God into it?"

"Because God must be a part of my life now, part of the very fiber that makes up my body and soul. And I do not know Him." Erik turned from the stars' splendors. "You must teach me."

"Perhaps I no longer wish to know of Him myself."

"If that is true, the loss is yours more than mine."

Raoul advanced a few feet and turned on Erik. "Did you never wonder that God hated you?"

"Wonder? I was convinced of it. I bear the mark of the devil, you know."

For the first time Erik glimpsed a hint of reluctant amusement on Raoul's face. "And Christine showed you otherwise?"

"No."

"No. That kiss, then. She's promised to marry you! Does it mean nothing?"

"It means everything. But it was not her alone who showed me, Raoul. You did, as well."

Raoul shook his head.

"I would not have sought the light if I had not heard your promise. And I wish to hear it again."

"Hear what? A bit of song?"

"Say the word."

"I will not."

"Tell me, Raoul."

Raoul shook his head. "You ask too much of me."

"I ask everything, yes. As does God."

"I cannot."

Raoul spun and stormed into the house, leaving Erik alone.

_He left you again._

_Yes. But he does not leave me devastated, for I have you._


	15. Chapter 15

When we forgive evil we do not excuse it, we do not tolerate it, we do not smother it. We look the evil full in the face, call it what it is, let its horror shock and stun and enrage us, and only then do we forgive it.

Lewis B. Smedes

Chapter Fifteen

Erik spent the night prowling the rooms allotted to him, wondering if, should he approach Raoul again, his brother would keep his word. _How could he betray my trust?_ he wondered.

Finally in a burst of furious energy, he stormed to the music room and pounded his anguish onto the pianoforte keys, loud enough that he might have woken every member of the household, though no one tracked him down to beg him to stop. And when he had done, he found himself in a curious limbo of emotion—drained of himself, able to look at the facts just as they were, and not as things of vast, overpowering importance.

He had seduced his brother's betrothed, stolen her love from him.

He had killed others for his own convenience.

He had plotted the death of hundreds with no thought of compassion.

He had attempted to murder his brother.

He had walked away from the scene of his crimes without thought of retribution.

He deserved hell.

When he looked at his past with dispassionate calm, and could find no release for his guilt, he sat to write a few lines, folded the missive, sealed it, addressed it, and took himself to his bed where he at last managed to sleep.

I I I I I

Christine found the note a few minutes after she rose for the day. She sat on a soft chair, pulled a flickering candle closer and opened it. As she read, her heart vacillated between trepidation and fury, but she read to the end, the better able to understand Erik's spurious logic.

My dearest love, my Christine,

I cannot tell you this to your face, nor even in the deepest recesses of our secret communications. Christine, you have chosen so badly—I cannot understand why my father, his wife and his household have accepted me, but I understand your reasoning. I seduced you—seduced you with evil intent to enslave you in the same hell I deserve. But you do not deserve this. When I am with you I know I can never send you away from me but alone, truth forces its way into my heart and I know I must. My Angel, my love, my life—you deserve heaven, not the love of one of the damned.

Please, I cannot send you away. You must break from me of your own accord—for I cannot let you go—I cannot—I love you.

He hadn't signed it. Shaking, Christine slammed the letter to the table next to her and rose to pace the room. _You pen a horrible love letter._

_Christine, Christine. . . . _

After that, she felt nothing else from him and she stormed through her morning until she could contain her feelings no longer and went in search of her adored.

I I I I I

She found him with his face close to the conservatory window, staring into the garden beyond, bleak despair written large over his countenance. Without looking up he said, "So. We are both damned."

"Neither of us, Erik. You are as much a beloved child of God as anyone. He will not consign you to hell unless you choose it."

"I cannot live like other men. I am truly the Devil's child. If this were not so, would I hate my own choices, my very soul?"

"You are not alone in your feelings. I imagine self-hatred makes for hard living, but it is not impossible. Others love you more than you do."

But no matter how much she cajoled, she could not appease him. They spent the day in useless conversation and the next, when she met him again she gave up her arguments and listened as he played several of his recent compositions. Within minutes she'd mastered several passages and the two sang together as they had in the past, with total abandon and heartbreaking harmony.

Still, she felt as though he'd locked a portion of himself away from her. Always before, she'd known no barriers between them. Now, not only did he refrain from physical contact but he kept his heart from her reach as well.

"Erik," she said, sitting next to him on the bench.

He stood. "Christine, we're un-chaperoned."

She stared up at him, caught between shock and laughter. "You've never minded that before."

"But I must. Things have changed, Christine, you see that! I am not—"

She waited. He remained silent. She ran her fingers across the keys, finding the notes from his last song.

"Christine, don't do this to me. I hardly know who I am now—"

"Now that you have a name?"

He waved that observation away.

"Or now that you have decided to forsake the love offered you? Forsake the love so many sacrificed to give you?"

He shook his head, closed his eyes. In astonishment she watched tears course his cheeks. "This, I know. I am a murderer. I have perpetrated more evil in my lifetime than you could ever imagine."

She rose, reaching for him but he sensed her and moved away.

"But you—"

"And I go unpunished."

"Your own father—"

"My father is a fool. My brother—I have no idea why he has not turned me in. He has every reason, every incentive; no one would blame him—"

"But your father."

He laughed. "Very well, that's his reasoning—I owe his silence to my father, then. And Cecile—she has been my champion since I was a child. She would not harm me and cannot see that I have done wrong."

"She sees it."

He turned to stare at her, his eyes intense with questions. After a moment, as though she'd answered, he nodded. "She sees." He sighed, and with it, allowed her a glimpse of his thoughts. _I am humbled by this—that all see my sin. Humbled, abashed, ashamed, I am worthy of nothing, worthy of hell._

She jumped up.

"And yet, I live here in this house, surrounded by those who knew me at my most evil, and still. . .pretend they did not."

"I don't pretend anything." Christine stalked away from him. "I was going to kiss you, Erik, but it seems you'd rather wallow in your self-pity than accept that you have the chance to make amends."

He stared at her, his mouth agape.

"Do you think yourself so noble, strutting about and casting your faults before us? Do you think yourself the humblest of men, because you admit you are not the perfect being you always believed?"

"I have never—" His hand flew to his face, covering it, and Christine jerked it away.

"Do not ever hide your face from me!"

They stared at one another and she felt his emotions wash over her—fear, sorrow, bewilderment, wonder.

Gasping, he backed away until the pianoforte stopped him. "Why don't you hate me?" He sounded like a child.

"Because I love you." She swallowed. "Erik, I know you've done these things. I know you've given in to the power of evil and allowed that evil to feed you the lies that say you are above the law because you are such a pitiable creature. My love, I don't pity you. No one does, except perhaps your father, and he pities the child he never knew more than the man that child became."

He shook his head and looked away.

"Do you want to heal?"

"Yes." She struggled to hear his whisper.

"Do you really? Because self-pity has no part in healing."

He nodded, still not meeting her eyes.

"Erik." She stepped close, forcing him to face her if only to ensure she kept the distance he seemed to want. She gave him no chance for that, however. "I love you. I do not pity you; I will not pity you; I will not allow you to give in to pity again."

He seemed to struggle with words for several minutes then he moved forward and enveloped her in his arms. "I love you. I want to be the man you believe I can be."

She raised her face and met his lips. Her fingers traced the lines of his tears, felt more tears pour down his cheeks and mix with hers.

_Finally, you let me in._

_Christine, I love you._

I I I I I

He let her kiss him, let her demand his love in return, unable to prevent her. If his tears of shame could not stop her, what power had he over her love? Only when his sense of restraint reached his utmost limits did he try to insert a bit of distance between them.

To his surprise, she let him. "God wants you to be happy." She cupped his face as if both sides were equal.

"As long as I am with you—"

"No. Even with me, you could be miserable. If I had stayed with you, in the darkness, we would never have found peace."

He nodded and saw her truth in what seemed a flash of blinding light.

"You must find peace for yourself. But do not look for it inside you. It's not there."

"Then where?"

"You crave forgiveness."

"But—Christine, I don't understand."

"And you are the genius." Her voice gentled in teasing. "Who can forgive?"

He stared into her eyes, longing for the answers he knew she wanted to show him; knowing she would not, but would lead him into his own discovery. "You can."

"I already have."

"As has everyone in this house."

"Not everyone."

"No, not Raoul."

"Oh, him." She turned away and he regretted mentioning his brother. "He's more of a fool than your father. The ones who understand, who are able to forgive, however, they already have. All but one."

He frowned, trying to fathom her meaning.

"You, Erik. You cannot forgive yourself, and you never will, until you can ask it of God."

He stumbled back, stricken by the truth. When he reached the bench he sat on it, staring at her. The terror that coursed through him raged stronger than any he'd ever felt. But was this his own fear, or did he still labor under the dominance of the demon? After long minutes spent searching his soul, he shook his head. No, this emotion he must claim as his own, a fear born of ignorance rather than influence.

"Erik?"

"I pray." He corrected himself. "I try to pray. I don't know how."

"All God asks is a willing heart."

"That, I have given Him."

"You must give Him your soul. You must accept His gifts—this home, this family, this life, this love. His mercy."

He turned away again, but now the sight of the pianoforte keys only added to his agitation rather than soothed it. "Raoul told me I must leave the country if I wish to confess."

"Why? Every priest obeys the seal of the confessional."

He looked up, hope at last finding its way into his soul. "I had forgotten that. Christine, will you—I must go to the priest, then. Will you come with me? Not—no, I must go myself."

"I'll go to the church with you. We'll ask Maman to arrange it."

He nodded, but felt his hand rise to his face again. "I must—Christine, I need a mask. I can't—"

On her way to the door already, she glanced over her shoulder. "Talk to Meg. And then we'll go."

I I I I I

He gauged the girl's unease to have abated only a fraction since their last encounter. As he approached, she stared at him wide-eyed, and he saw her unconscious reach for her mother who sat beside her.

"Meg."

She rose, looking terrified.

"I'm not planning your demise," he told her. "Christine sent me to you."

"Oh." She moved as if to run, then looked back to her mother. Cecile handed her a bundle of white cloth, which Meg in turn held out to him.

He took it, knowing before he unfolded the cloth what it held. A mixture of gratitude and horror swept over him.

"You were there."

"They were looking for you. I wanted to help, did Christine tell you that? I couldn't stop them—"

"Ma fille!"

"Maman, I know you told me not to go but it was for Christine. And for—"

Once again she glanced his way and a sense of awe overcame him. "For the murderer."

"No, Vicomte. For the man she loves. For the one my mother wished to help. I wished it also." She pushed at the edge of the bundle so the cloth fell away and revealed the mask.

Some of the confidence which he lost these days since he and Christine had reunited came back to him and he felt his posture straighten. "You have done well, Meg. Thank you."

I I I I I

Madame Giry gave him instruction on the way and before they entered the cool stone church, she pressed a Rosary into his hands. "I will teach you the prayers later—"

"I know them. I have studied this."

She nodded. "I place you under the Virgin's mantle then. She will bring you to her Son, and she will pray for you."

Christine gave him a joyful smile and knelt beside him while he waited.

He let his eyes sweep the altar. Candles stood unlit, and no vessels graced the table. He remembered the years he'd spent searching out sacred objects, stealing them, surrounding himself with them, all in a vain attempt to fill his life with the God he craved but could not find. But those objects brought him no closer, for the demons had kept his soul steeped in blackness. Yet here, in this plain parish, he could reach with his heart and touch the face of his God.

He held the beads, let them slip through his fingers, and remembered the prayers that followed the life of his Lord. Here, in the incense-scented sanctuary, he discerned the peace Christine had promised. My God, _You are here. Everywhere, and here, and if I so choose, You will be with me always. Dear God, I choose! _

When the door to the small confessional closet opened, he squared his shoulders and went in. A grate slid away and he knelt before it, blessing himself.

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

He walked from the confessional to the pew a changed man, a new man. Christine watched him; he felt her eyes on him as he went straight to her, pressed his face to her lap and wept. He had cried while he confessed; spewed remorse and repentance then; now his tears were of gratitude and joy and a love for his God so immense he could never contain it, never understand it, never explore it to its end. God had promised to make of him a new man, and so He had; Erik had not expected to feel the newness like new skin after the old has shucked off.

Christine stroked his hair over and over.

_My God, my God, why have you forgiven me?_

And he couldn't stop crying.

After some time Christine unfastened the mask and tried to ease it from under his face. He shifted, then pulled it away and let it clatter to the floor. The empty eye regarded him with reproach and he turned his back on the smudged leather.

When his sobs finally slowed he sat up, mopped his face of the unaccustomed tears and rested against the back of the pew, his hand safe within Christine's. A peace and joy, like the first time Christine responded to his song, filled him.

This was what he had wanted all along.

He closed his eyes and settled his soul secure in the Hands of his God—_his_ God, no longer the God Who rejected him. He thought he could not contain his joy and as always in moments of great emotion music formed in him, became a picture in his mind; this one the trust of a child. He could see that child—himself, but loved as never before—cherished and treasured and protected. For God had protected him, as much as he never would have believed that before—God had sent Christine when he needed to learn to love, and then, Raoul, when he needed to learn to live.

Beside him, Christine murmured his name and he looked up. Madame Giry had been walking the stations and she turned toward them, her always impassive face alight with her own curious joy. She tipped her head as if to speak to him, though she was still far away, but a man stopped her.

Erik leaned forward, but the man turned and he saw by his clothing that he was a priest. At Madame Giry's direction he came toward their pew, and Erik watched his approach with no apprehension. He was forgiven, forgiven by God—let any man on earth imprison him, torture him, kill him, and he would not care, for his God had forgiven him and would take him home.

The priest stopped. "I am Monsignor Laferriere."

Erik became aware of his hands; his left clutched in Christine's, his right resting across his lap, relaxed. He became aware of his face, uncovered, unmasked, unprotected. He became aware of the peace that suffused his soul. A stranger looked upon the ugliness he bore and he had no unquenchable urge to hide himself—no urge at all.

Recognizing the priest's voice as the one who had heard his confession, he rose and bowed. "Monsignor."

After studying Erik for another moment, the man said, "Have you received instruction in the Sacraments, my son?"

"No, I have not."

"Then you will come every day at one of the afternoon. You have a quick mind and a great thirst for God. You will grasp all you need to know very soon, and then the church will receive you as a full member."

Erik stood straighter. "How soon?"

"A matter of a few weeks, perhaps a month. Easter Vigil is a little more than that away and I sense in you a great need to become one of the Body—far greater than in any other man I have ever met."

Erik felt Christine's sudden movement. "Because of his confession?"

"Pardon?" The monsignor seemed not to have noticed her before. "Do you not think he is a very spiritual being?" He smiled at Erik. "So I will see you?"

Erik bowed. "Yes, and you are right. I have much need of what this church has to offer."

After the priest walked away Erik looked after him in awe.

_How did he know how much I want the Eucharist?_

Christine smiled into his eyes as she answered. _He seems to be a man who listens closely to God._

Erik drew in a deep breath._ As I want to be._

I I I I I

He searched for Raoul the rest of the day and only ceased when his father told him his younger brother had gone to a few outlying farms to speak with the tenants. Once he'd accepted that, he prowled the house, stopping now and then in the conservatory to trail his hands over the keys, now and then in the drawing room where his father sat with his step-mother and in the garden, where Christine, Meg and Leonie played and rested. He could not understand his own restlessness but knew it had nothing to do with his encounter with God; that had left him with a peace he could not understand, and an acceptance of that peace which also astounded him.

When Henri bowed his way into the conservatory with Simon clinging to his coattails, Erik welcomed the intrusion.

"Vicomte, he claims he has an invitation to come as he pleases."

"Yes, Henri. Simon is always welcome."

"Monsieur Erik, I told him you would want to see me. I told him you want to teach me." Stumbling, Simon let go of Henri's coat and blundered into a chair.

"Easy, child." Erik rose and took his hand.

"Yes, thank you." Simon's words seemed all of a piece, as though he had rehearsed them without understanding them.

Erik peered into the boy's face, more troubled than before. When he'd first met him he'd sensed some difficulty, but Simon's cheery demeanor had soothed his worries. Now, his young friend seemed to hold himself together too tightly, as though he feared disintegration if he were to let his guard down.

"Simon."

"Non, Monsieur, I am fine, please. You promised me a lesson."

Still watching the boy's face he called, _Christine._

"Are you going to teach me?"

"Yes, Simon, I am." Erik led him to the pianoforte, for once that afternoon his agitation easing. Simon wriggled onto the bench, felt for the keys and tested the notes. "I will play scales. My old teacher made me play scales a hundred times before he allowed me to play anything else."

"He no longer teaches you?"

"He quit."

"When was that?" Erik looked to the door, wishing Christine would hurry to him.

"Yesterday, and Papa was angry with me."

"Why would he be angry with you? Did you make the man quit?"

Simon bowed his head. "I did. I told him you play far better than anyone and you teach the angels and he is nothing compared to you."

"Ah. I doubt that was wise." He leaned toward the window to catch sight of Christine in the garden and saw the girls had left it. A moment later, all three entered the conservatory.

"Papa was very angry with me. He said that if I wish to come to you as a student, he will not pay you and I said you would not ask for money; that you are a noble Vicomte and you would never become offended like Monsieur Monnier and leave me to find a new teacher on my own. And then Papa sent for the coachman to bring me here."

Erik met Christine's eyes.

_You have long wanted to be a hero. _He heard the amusement in her words.

_Now it sits uncomfortably on me._

She laughed, and Simon spun around on the bench. "Mademoiselle Christine! You are here also? Monsieur Erik is so fortunate. He has his two favorite people in the world with him."

"We are, aren't we?" Christine settled next to him on the bench. "My sister Meg and Leonie are here also, and if you practice well and listen to Erik, Leonie will take you to the garden to play."

He nodded, and rested his head against Christine's shoulder for a moment before bending over the keys and beginning his scales.

_That poor child_.

Erik shook his head at her, still not certain if Simon could see into their thoughts.

She nodded, looked at the boy, then turned to count for him, humming the scales and turning them into a thing of beauty.

I I I I I

For He sees the broken hearted and He loves them as they are.

He will not forsake His children nor leave them to despair.

He asks your trust. He asks your love. He asks everything, as His due.

Erik dropped his pen, frustrated with the words that would not scan as he wished; frustrated with his longing for Christine, even though she lay sleeping only a few rooms away; frustrated with his worries for his brother and Simon. Two lost children, he thought. They have fathers, but cannot touch them. They are loved, but know it not. . .

A slammed door interrupted his musings and he turned to see Raoul behind him. Even in the darkest part of the night, Raoul's shirt shone white. Erik sucked in a breath of shock.

Raoul smirked. "Did I frighten you?"

"No." Erik went to him; wondering for a moment how he might imprison the boy until such a time as sensible words made an impression on his brain. Raoul edged away, though he gave no sign of bolting, and Erik stopped. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, spoken like a true sibling! If only I did not know you for the liar you are."

"I ask a question, not tell a truth."

"You never tell the truth. Your whole life is a lie."

"Raoul—"

Raoul slammed his gloves onto a side table before striding close to the dying fire. As he held out his hands to the warmth, he said, "No one is less concerned than you where I have been, and I see little concern among the rest of _your _family for the outcast."

"Raoul, you have not been outcast—"

"No?" Raoul spun around, pacing toward Erik. They were of similar height and Erik met his brother's eyes without flinching. A nerve jumped in Raoul's jaw, his nostrils flared. "You will say I have chosen to leave but the truth is I am forced out. I cannot stomach what has become of my family."

Erik shook his head. "Once, I would have been glad to displace you in all things. Now, I no longer wish it." Raoul began to answer but Erik went on. "You may choose to disbelieve me but that does not change the truth. I am not your enemy."

"You are. I choose my enemy, and it is you."

Erik jerked as his anger surfaced and he could not fight it down. "If only I killed you while I had the chance!"

"And now—what's to stop you now?"

He turned away, unwilling to see the hatred in Raoul's eyes. _Say the word and I will follow,_ but Raoul had not kept his word, he had not followed."A few—a _very_ few—finer feelings. I would not like to break your mother's heart."

"But not your father's—"

"You are jealous. You make me sick!"

"And so you must be as glad as the rest that I leave you to your gloating."

"If you leave, do you know what that will do to your father?"

"He is not my father!"

Erik sprang forward, his past stealth making short work of Raoul's attempted escape. His bare hands remembered the sins of his past and he gripped Raoul's windpipe with one while with the other he confined the boy's arms. "So if you wish to leave, am I to believe you would not cry over dying?"

Wordless and strained, Raoul forced his response from his throat; Erik took it to be a plea for his life and wondered if he could trust capitulation so soon. After a moment, feeling the tension in the arms he held, he decided he could not, and instead, tightened his grip. "You are in my power, boy. Remember that. I have danced with the devil and I remember the steps. Pray do not think I would spare you."

He released the boy's throat. Raoul sank against him but again, Erik trusted not his trickery. "I hate you, brother though you might be. Kill me, then, Phantom. You are right in thinking I will not cry."

"Here's the truth from you, then. But do you not remember? There is no Phantom."

Raoul jerked, ripping his arms from Erik's embrace and hurtling toward the fire. He caught himself short, his hand to his reddened throat, and turned, silhouetted against the dying flames. "_I_ am the one who should have killed _you_!"

Erik laughed. "But of course. We have had each at the other's mercy, have we not? Then where is your quarrel with me? You did not kill me, and I returned the favor. Pardon, I have little knowledge of families; is this not a typical display of brotherly love?"

Raoul choked once again, this time not from any external pressure; Erik saw his pain come to the fore as he bowed his head. "Erik, how am I to live without Christine?"


	17. Chapter 17

"Am I my brother's keeper?" Genesis 4:9

Chapter Seventeen

_Erik? Angel? Where are you?_

He didn't answer. Christine spent half an hour searching through the huge house, positive he would not willingly leave it for fresh air and the chance of exposing his face, but when finally she abandoned her search and asked Henri, he directed her out the side door and down the wide stone steps to the garden. She saw him from a distance. He stood with his back to her, one shoulder propped against a tree trunk, his arms folded.

_Angel. Why don't you answer me?_

He turned then, meeting her eyes for a suspended moment, then strode up the path toward her. She met him in a small arbor filled with the scent of roses and wrapped her arms around his neck and found his lips with hers, seeking to comfort him. He answered her kiss and she heard on his breath, "Christine, oh, Christine."

"Did you not know I sought you?"

"Yes." He set her a bit apart from him, but took her hand and led her to a stone bench nestled among the rose bushes. "I needed time to think." He smiled, the first she had seen in several days. "I still cannot attend to more than one thing at a time."

"Some would say this is a good thing." She took his hand in hers and held it to her face, caught the scent of him and a lingering fraggrance of parchment and ink. She saw he'd been writing music from the dark smears on his hand. She settled their clasped hands in her lap. "You're troubled."

"Yes." He met her eyes again, all humor gone. "I very nearly killed my brother last night."

"Oh, Erik." Christine's grip tightened, as if she could retain his past actions by her presence now. "Why this time?" And then, realizing her blunder, she said, "I don't mean—or perhaps I do—"

"Perhaps you do, and you'd be right. I have made a reprehensible habit of threatening the boy."

Christine waited and after a moment he went on. "We must leave here. As much as I understand the needs of my father, I cannot bear what my presence does to my family."

"Oh, no—"

"You don't wish to go?"

She shook her head. "It isn't that. Where you go, I will go. You know this—I will follow you anywhere but back into that darkness. I wish—I wish only that you could please everyone."

He laughed and stood again, walking a few steps before turning to her. "It's not to happen. Do you not remember the story our Lord told? Children played dance music, but their companions would not laugh, and funeral music, but they would not cry? I play, and create only discord and so I will go to where I can find those who wish to laugh or cry at my command."

"And your father?"

"He may come to me, as he wishes. And he will, Christine. But I will not attempt to cause more strife between his love and Raoul's pride." He knelt then, in front of her. "My darling, my heart of hearts, I cannot flaunt your love for me in my brother's face."

I I I I I

Christine felt compelled to watch as Erik told his plans to the household, one and two at a time. He wanted her beside him, she knew, but would not force her. She stayed with him and supported him through her own sense of compassion; first and foremost, her realization that never before in his life had he ever had to consider his actions in relation to others' concerns, and now he took great care with every one. Like a father confessor he bent close to each, listened to the words spoken in argument, and consoled. Christine's heart filled and spilled with such feeling that she thought she might cry out. Instead, late in the afternoon she took one of Erik's pens and a scrap of parchment and scratched her thoughts into a poem, hoping he might someday deem it worthy to set to music, that she might sing it to him.

Meg and Leonie crept up behind her, giggling like children. She turned to catch them at their teasing and surprised them into raucous laughter.

Meg collapsed on the settee and gave herself over to her mirth, while Leonie pretended no interest in the words on the parchment while trying to catch a glimpse of them.

"Why are you two so excited?" Christine asked, though she suspected their answer would have much to do with her Angel.

"Erik talked to us," Meg explained.

"He told us his plans and he has not yet told the Comtesse." Leonie's awe rang clear in her voice and she gave over her prying to explain. "He told us about the de Chagny estate in Huilerie, in Marseille, and how he will take all of us there—the Girys and me and you and anyone else of a mind to come with us—and how he will build a grand opera house there and we shall be famous and when the uprising in Paris is quelled we shall go back there because everyone knows that Paris is the center of the world."

"The Greeks might disagree with you," Christine told her, humor warming her words. "Am I to understand you wish to go, then? You have no desire to stay here where your every need is provided for and you have no work?"

"No dancing," Meg scoffed. "I would rather weave my own cloth and kill my own food to the boredom of never performing."

Christine nodded.

"And so." Leonie stood. "We are to ready ourselves for our removal to Huilerie. Marseille is nearly as big as Paris, so we will have no shortage of an audience, and they will not be so jaded as the people in Paris. They are not so sophisticated."

"Oh, of course, everyone knows this," Christine said, keeping her laughter from her voice only with great effort.

"You mock me," Leonie said, indifferent. "But I am not as stupid as you think. We shall be the talk of France, and when this silly war is done they shall beg for us to dance in Paris. And sing, as well, because you love to sing, don't you, Christine?"

"I do."

Meg leaned forward, gripping Christine's hands. "He has gone to speak with the priest—"

Leonie interrupted, "He goes—like he has no fear of any man!"

Meg turned to gawp at her. "Why should he have fear?"

"Well, his face," Leonie said, as if that explained everything. And a few days before, it would have. "But he goes, and Raoul goes with him, and I think the Comte wonders which will come back alive, and which will be murdered."

"I don't think we need to worry on that account," Christine said, irritated with Leonie's penchant for violence and death. "But we may have Simon with us as well. Erik is to ask his parents to apprentice him to us."

"A blind boy!"

"A talented musician," Christine corrected.

Leonie made a face, at which Meg giggled, and Christine turned back to her poem.

"What are you writing? A love letter?" Once again Leonie leaned over her shoulder, jostling to see, but Christine covered her work with her hand, unwilling to share something so new from her heart.

"No. Well, yes, I suppose it would be. I'm trying to write a poem."

Meg laughed. "I didn't know you were a poet."

"Nor did—I am not. I thought—" Christine sighed. "I want to give Erik a gift, and something to fit his music is the best one I can think of."

"Will you let us read it when you are done?"

"Better than that. When he puts it to music I will sing it for you. If he thinks it good enough."

"He will," Meg assured her, and Christine shared a moment of joy with her sister before turning back to her song.

Who is this man I love?

Who is this man who takes my heart with him;

strides between heaven and earth,

who sings with the angels while he dances with me?

She shook her head then, frustrated that she could not make the words express her wonderment in her Angel—his love for her, yes, but also the changes she had seen in him the last weeks they'd shared. He must have a heart open to consume the world and all its knowledge, all its truths, as well as the truths of God, in order for him to allow God to change him as he had. And that she had been a small part of it, she could only rejoice.

But she could not put her emotions to words and she left them discarded upon the pianoforte, thinking to ask Erik's help in the morning.

I I I I I

That evening Christine trod with care through a conversation with the Comtesse. The woman would resent Erik's decision and request, and yet, would not deny him.

"Christine," the Comte called. She rose and went to him. "What are your feelings on this ball? Should we continue with the plan to hold it, or desist as Erik wishes? Are you desolate to not be dancing?"

Christine sank to the floor at his feet. "I would enjoy it, I'm sure." Her fleeting glance touched on the Comtesse. "But I agree with Erik, the time is so wrong. People fight for freedom, and a ball would be so much a slap in the face to those involved."

"So we are to adjust our entertainment to the whims of commoners?" the Comtesse spat.

Christine felt her face suffuse with heat and she rose to her knees before the Comte held out his hand to his wife. "Veronique, do you not think that discourteous? I hold those who would kill to make their point in no esteem, but I do not think so highly of myself as to think I am their better."

Christine glanced to where Erik still spoke with Madame Giry. He had not heard his father, and for that, she was glad, although she thought he might not take the rebuff to heart so much as he once would have.

The Comtesse's tirade broke into her thoughts. "You think we must change our world to conform to your new son, Florentin! I do not see that! Perhaps a bit, yes, he deserves that much, but I cannot give up everything I hold dear to his caprice."

"This is not about my son."

"And nothing has been about _our_ son since that one arrived. Do you even know where Raoul is this night?"

"My lady."

All three turned to stare at Erik. Christine closed her eyes, terrified of the damage the woman must have caused, but Erik showed no pain.

"Yes?"

"I have spoken with your son this night, and he is—he is well—but I have been speaking with Cecile and—I think it best if we—"

"No!" The Comte's roar raised the hair on Christine's arms. She turned to gape at the old man, and stumbled away from him as he swashed his cane through the air. "Erik, you must promise me more time. And you! You will not drive my son from my house."

Though Erik must have known his father spoke to his wife, he answered, "I already have."

Silence surrounded them like black, choking mist. Time stretched, each prolonged second growing old as hours would. The Comte staggered back, crumpled in his chair and shook with his grief. Erik knelt before him.

"Father, I have caused enough pain, and I wish to cause no more. You know I cannot stay here."

His voice reedy with tears, the Comte said, "I have missed your whole life."

"You are always welcomed in my life, Father." Erik placed both hands on his father's knees and Christine marveled at this further change in him, to allow and even offer the freedom of another's touch. "Every life I affect and it is not always for the better. You see this. As I wish to cause no more discord, I propose this. You have an estate in Huilerie, in Marseille. I would like to go there, take those of my household who would wish to come with me, and begin a business of my own."

"And what would that be?" The Comte spat. "A music hall?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps an opera house."

"You belong in Bedlam."

"No." Erik stood, smiling. "I am not a poor man, myself, you know this. I can fund an opera house without help from you. And I will have a grand ballet mistress, the beginnings of a corps de ballet, and a Prima Dona to attract."

Christine laughed at the thought of singing again. "I dislike that title, Erik, but we will never fall short of operas to perform, for you will write them."

She gripped his arm and he gazed down at her. "Meg and Leonie have become restless with nothing to do, and I suspect Cecile also wishes for occupation."

The Comtesse once again spoke, this time without argument. "But of course you cannot go unwed."

Christine gaped at her.

"It is unthinkable, Erik, and have you not said you are to continue your studies with the priest at least until April? You cannot go before Easter, at the earliest."

"But we will plan, my lady, and at the end of this month, we will go."

The Comtesse settled back next to her husband, satisfaction glinting in her smile. "But who will plan the wedding? And the celebration after? Who better than me? I will have my ball after all."

"What of me?"

All turned at the forlorn voice piping from the pianoforte. "You will leave me and Monsieur Monnier will not come back and I will have not one friend." Great tears pooled under Simon's eyes and fell down his cheeks.

"You will have friends." Erik moved from his father's side to the boy's, took him by the hand and led him to the small gathering. "Simon, I have spoken with your father and mother and they have agreed. You shall apprentice to me, but my terms are somewhat different than other masters."

"I am?" As if he could see, Simon's face tipped toward Erik's. "I am!"

After that a cacophony of excitement filled the room, as each person contributed to the plans Erik had begun. He sprawled in a straight-backed chair, his gaze going from one to another of his family, while Simon stood next to him, holding his arm and dancing his delight. Although Christine couldn't hear the little boy she saw his mouth in constant motion and wondered at Erik's patience. He caught her eye and the tail of her thought and a smile broke on his face.

_You are much loved, Erik._

_As are you!_

Passion filled her at his raw emotion and she stood, suddenly restless. He did also and with a few words to Simon, approached her and escorted her to the windows leading to the garden. Once they passed into the scented darkness he enfolded her in his arms.

"Christine, these next four weeks will seem longer than the lifetime I've already lived." She felt his breath against her hair, trailing down her cheek and urging her mouth to meet his. She'd forgotten the way his kiss affected every part of her body. Ensconced within his ardor she forgot the chill air and the voices from the room just beyond the window. His fingers slipped from her shoulder to the swell of her breast over her gown, and she felt her hold on the night slip away in her desire for him. She wanted him to push on, to vanquish the four weeks they must wait for each other and give her no choice—and then, his hand moved again, lower, cupping her breast and she realized he also had lost his last thread of restraint. She gasped and caught his fingers. He stilled, though she felt him tremble.

"Erik?"

"I'm sorry. Oh, Christine." He lay his head against hers and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her. She felt within him his fierce struggle, and her muscles softened in anticipation. Turning her head the merest fraction, she feathered a kiss on his collarbone and burned again at the rush of desire that filled them both, inciting each other.

"Christine, I love you and for that alone, I will not—I will not." With a deep breath he kissed her hair. He turned her enough that she no longer felt his need, and though she strained to reach his mouth again, he would not let her.

"Erik, no, please." But she could not voice her desires, she was too shy of her need even then. "Are you certain Monsignor Laferriere won't marry us before those four weeks?"

His low chuckle sent shivers through her veins. "Not before Easter, nor before the vigil, when I am made a full member of the church. I begged him myself, my love."

She nodded, unable to argue. "And we will go from our wedding to Huilerie?" A few days travel would bring them to the coastal town, and as she imagined the nights of rest between the days she turned to him and clung, her need stronger than ever.

But he had accepted her questions and she felt his gratitude at her intervention, along with his acknowledgement that she had no wish to stop him. "Cecile will come after we leave, by a week or so. We will have a few days alone, at least. It is all arranged."

"Perhaps we shouldn't think about those days alone." _Or the nights_. He laughed and she went on. "And you think your father will accept your plans?"

He shrugged. "He mustl. You heard him, Christine; it eats to his very soul. But Raoul and I—we cannot coexist. Veronique will accept our leaving, but I fear—"

"You fear nothing."

"I fear—choices." His admission came on a breath and she felt his passion abate, although his hold never loosened. "My father's, Raoul's. Tonight, my own."

"That, I don't fear at all, Erik." She pulled his head down and again his mouth brushed her skin and in tremendous longing he crushed her to his taut body.

He whispered into her, "I have no self control—"

A small laugh escaped her. "Do you wish to rejoin your family then?"

"No, I would carry you to some hidden bower ands make you one with me."

Her muscles went fluid at his seduction and she pulled on his neck to bring him as close as possible.

A whisper of fabric and a giggle interrupted them. Christine turned to see Simon, shivering on the stone parapet where Meg or Leonie had thrust him.

"Monsieur Erik?"

"We're here. Don't be frightened." Without seeming to remove his warmth from Christine he pulled the boy to his side. She leaned toward Erik, accepting her friends' intervention, but with a mind to scold them later.

_And this is why we pray, "and lead us not into temptation. . ." _She hoped he heard the hint of humor in her thoughts.

_And yet we called up the demon of our own will, did we not? I should not have brought you here. And still God sent one of his angels to save us._

Simon wrinkled his nose, never one to tolerate inattention. "Where is Mademoiselle Christine? Leonie told me you brought her out to the darkness to ravish her and I didn't know what that meant but Meg explained, and I said you would never do that! My father says you are a gentleman, and I say you are a king—an angel!"

Christine smoothed his shock of hair over his forehead, ever indebted for his adulation of her Angel. "How do you know these things, little one?"

He shrugged and burrowed into the warmth between the two. "I just know."

"He is, though." Christine smiled into Erik's eyes and felt his love envelope her. "He is a king and an angel and he is mine."


	18. Chapter 18

"No sin is worse than the sin of self-pity, because it removes God from the throne of our lives."  
Oswald Chambers

Chapter Eighteen

As he did each night, Erik crept to the pianoforte to relieve some of the tension the day had built within him, all the while knowing his late hours would cause more distress to his family the following day. But he could as much leave his composing as he could leave his Angel, and that he would never do.

He searched the scattered papers that drifted like a bridal veil to the floor, and found a quartet of lines written in an unfamiliar hand.

Who is this man I love?

Who is this man who takes my heart with him;

strides between heaven and earth,

who sings with the angels while he dances with me?

As he read, he recognized Christine's heart in the words, and his own heart filled to bursting at the emotion he read into them. Had she left it for him to find? For him to set to music?

But he could not set it aside to await her answers. Melody filled him and he soon lost himself in a sweet composition of notes. Ink seeped from his pen onto his fingers, which he wiped on other scraps. Henri always provided dozens of candles and as one flickered low he would light another to take its place, then bend over his work once again.

Soon he had crafted a song he thought might be worthy of his Angel, and rose to get himself to bed, leaving his heart entwined with Christine's, tied in song. He lay awake long after the rest of the household settled into sleep. Firelight flickered lower and lower on the far wall, the shadows loomed, and he rose again, pulling a cloak around him to ward the chill and perhaps hide his passage—from whom he couldn't say. He had not felt this sense of impending doom since he'd left the opera house; now, he felt the oppression of the darkness seek to overtake him, and he knew his only weapon was prayer.

He found the Bible and the Rosary Cecile had given him and knelt near his window. But his restlessness only grew as he prayed, although his sense of menace faded. He was not in danger, then. Christine? But the darkness had never had its hold in her, as much as it had craved to win her.

Raoul, though—Erik stood. Raoul was in need of him and he would go to the boy, would seek him out but whether he would allow Erik to help Erik could not determine. He said another quick prayer, for his own safety, for Raoul's soul, and left his room.

Erik had not seen his brother the entire day and wondered if the boy had once again fled, or had lain abed the daylight hours. He checked his room and found it empty, searched through the public rooms of the house and found him not, then, after changing into clothes more suited to walking, he pulled on his boots and went out.

The night air, filled with sweetness, brushed his cheeks, and with no idea where to go, no clue that Raoul had not left the country, even, he set out, letting his feet lead him, praying that, if God wanted him to meet his brother He would show the way.

He stumbled when he didn't see how the land dipped away from him, staggered and caught himself. When he straightened he caught sight of something—nothing human, but something frightening, hovering. He moved forward and it disappeared within the copse of trees he'd traveled through the day he'd found Simon.

The creek had lost some of its height and most of its force, although it would still reach his knees. He found the ford and crossed with a jump, then crouched on the other side, listening, and heard something ahead of him—this time, something human. Raoul.

He straightened and approached, but warily. What shape would his brother be in—and what mind? And what of the dark form he'd seen, but saw no longer?

The few trees cut the little light of the stars and he felt his way through the dark toward his brother.

"Erik?"

"Yes. Why are you out here?"

"I could ask you the same."

Erik moved into a bit of starlit opening and looked Raoul over. The younger man gave him a careless glance which made Erik wonder if he'd been waiting for him—and for how long. "I came to find you."

"How would you even know I was here?" But something in his tone alerted Erik to the fact that he was right—Raoul had been waiting.

"You wanted me to know."

Raoul closed his eyes—Erik only knew because he no longer saw the slivered gleam of his pupils. After a moment Raoul shook his head and turned, climbing the creek's bank and coming out to where the trees let in more light.

"Raoul, what do you want from me? Do you want me to give you Christine, like a parcel of cloth, owned by you, some empty possession?"

"She wouldn't let you."

Erik nodded. "You do understand, then. Where are you taking me?"

"I take you nowhere. I go, you follow. It's not my choice."

Erik stopped then and Raoul, after a moment turned away from his hike and approached him. "Are you afraid that I will lead you into a trap, as you did to me?"

He answered with a shrug.

Raoul slid down the bank, the scree clattering before him. Erik waited for Raoul to reach him, and when it looked as though Raoul might lose his balance he grabbed his arm and steadied him. His kindness earned him a scowl as Raoul wrenched himself away.

In the small dark clearing once again, Erik paused to take in more than what his eyes could tell him. He had sensed evil—here. He had seen it, he thought, though whether he had seen with his eyes or his heart he didn't know. But evil had come here and now he found only his brother. Fear burgeoned in his heart for the boy.

"Raoul—"

"What do you want of me?" Raoul snarled. "To rehearse the same argument? I'm not an actor on a stage, Erik. I've learned my lines and parroted them to you time and again and still you hound me to hear them. I want nothing to do with you! Can you not accept that?"

"I can. Considering how I lived my life until now, I can understand not wanting another person to be a part of it." He took a deep breath and wondered if God gave answers as the prayers went up. His only hope, when it came to his brother, was that Raoul would be disposed to listen to the enemy, and the hope was a small one, flickering near death.

"I am not interested in your life." Once again Raoul started toward the clearing and as much as Erik wanted the light, he mistrusted his brother's motives enough to stay in the shadows. Raoul's voice taunted. "What frightens you?"

"Evil."

"But you have such a close knowledge of evil, haven't you? You lived it and breathed it and eaten it. You're the Devil's child, and God alone knows why you are not locked in some prison, or why your body hasn't been buried in lime."

"God alone forgave me, and others followed."

"Others are fools. I am not."

"You put yourself above God in this, Raoul, and it makes you the worst fool. But I didn't come to argue with you, or even to hear your reasons for hating me. I came to tell you my plans. I'm taking Christine away. If you wish to know more, you may ask your father. I will not attempt to intrude on your life again."

He saw the flash of triumph in Raoul's face and bowed his head. He had lost, after all, lost his battle for his brother. Something other than love possessed the boy, and he could not prevail. Not on his own. He turned and headed for his father's home, alone.

I I I I I

Despite Erik's claim that the next four weeks would last as long as three lifetimes, for Christine the time sped by. She found that the rich could demand and expect near-miracles in exchange for their wealth, and in her mind the de Chagnys achieved those very miracles. She did not need a wedding dress, for she still had the one Erik had given her, and she would wear nothing but that, no matter what the Comtesse offered as a substitute. But in the rest of the wedding plans Christine deferred to the woman, for her taste was impeccable and her opinions strong. Christine had a fight of her own, one she wanted to win before the wedding, and she knew where she might waste her energy and where she might save it. The double celebrations—first, Easter Vigil, when Erik would become a full member of the church and then, two days later, the wedding day—were best left in the Comtesse's capable hands.

Raoul avoided her at all times, seemingly without effort. If she came into a room he had just left it; if she was dine with the family he was not; if she were to go on a visit with his mother, he had not been invited or had sent his regrets. Only once did she find herself in the same room with him, and it was only to hear him tell Erik that he would not attend the wedding. She thought he must have known the exact moment that she would enter the room, for he said his piece, looked at her with a hateful glint of triumph, and stalked from the room.

She raced to Erik's side, certain he would need her comfort, but he smiled and caught her in a loving embrace, showering her head with his kisses and distracting her worries for long enough that Raoul had gone from the house by the time she remembered him.

The day before Easter, however, she caught him in the garden and, proud of her tactics, managed to corner him so he could not but answer her questions and listen to her complaints.

He tried his best to dance around and beyond her but she stood her ground and refused to flinch, though his disregard cut her heart as easily as if he'd wielded a rapier.

"Do not think I have any desire to be with you," he told her, sitting on the bench near where she'd cornered him. "I stay on at this estate because my father asked it of me; because he has promised that once you and that phantom are gone from this house, it will be as if neither of you existed."

"I would rather leave some sense of myself here, for those who loved me." She lifted her chin and met his scorn with her own. She would not cower before his anger.

His laughter sounded more like a witch's cackle and she wondered if he had not heard it himself. Perhaps the open air disguised the sound. "Who has loved _you_, an insignificant chorus girl? You have too high an opinion of yourself."

"You'll not deflect me with insults, Raoul. You need to listen to me."

"I _need_ quiet." He made to stand and she darted forward, pushing him back. He jerked away as if her touch branded him.

She clasped her hands, furious that even now his contempt hurt her so. He chose to be as nothing to her, and while she had no desire for further romance, she wished for the easy friendship they'd once shared. "Raoul, you have divided your family because I made a mistake. You neither ask for forgiveness nor do you offer it."

"Have you joined the clergy? I have no need of a sermon today."

"Raoul—"

"You think yourself ill-used because I relieved you of your promise?" He arched one brow, his disdain for her clear.

"I apologized to you. You have never given Erik the same consideration—"

"And when would I have need to ask his forgiveness? Or yours, for that matter? I have done you no wrong!"

"You promised to follow him."

Raoul turned away, and she saw a familiar tension in the muscle of his jaw.

"You broke your promise, Raoul."

"I never said those words."

"I heard you."

"You heard nothing!" His roar would have brought servants running were they inside the house, out in the garden, she prayed Erik would not hear, nor hear of, his brother's anger.

"Raoul, I want you to know this—"

"I don't want to know."

"I do love you, though not in the way you would wish. You are a friend, a true, loving soul—or you were—and I pray for you every day. Don't hold yourself away from the light for a bit of pride. That's all this is. You can't bear to let him win; you can't bear to see that I love him. You can't bear it, and you'll break yourself if you continue to fight!"

He met her eyes, his own clouded with a darkness she couldn't see through. For a moment she thought she had reached him, prayed she had, but he turned from her. "I give you my felicitations, my _dear friend_, today, as I will not see you again."

And he was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

"Then one day, if we're lucky, we get tired of keeping a straight face. And control gives way to gooseflesh. And public opinion gives way to dancing. And logic gives way to wonderment."

Terry Hershey

Chapter Nineteen

Christine knelt beside her beloved, filled with awe. The scent of a hundred beeswax candles filled the church. The sonorous voice of the priest as he droned the liturgy in Latin filled her ears, and God filled her heart. In less than an hour Erik would become a full member of the church; he would receive his first Communion. Christine felt an immense gratitude, far too vast for a mere human's soul, encompass her. Immortality touched her and she thanked God for His abundant blessings.

The priest approached the altar in silence. Christine sensed Erik's anticipation in a burst of song inside her thoughts; he echoed her gratitude and love for their Savior as they reached the culmination of the past weeks' waiting.

_Soon, my love. Soon. _

_My Angel—He is my God!_

She accompanied him to the altar with the other Catechumens. Madame Giry followed, her hand secure on his shoulder as she pledged to continue guidance.

With a joy so complete she feared it might kill her, Christine watched the priest raise the Host to her lover's gaze. He announced, "Corpus Christi." _The Body of Christ_. Erik murmured his _Amen_ and took the Host into his mouth, his face suffused in wonder and awe.

The choir could not match the music within Christine's soul, composed in joy and love and everlasting hope.

A moment later she interrupted his prayer. _My Angel—_

_My Lord and my God has come to me._

I I I I I

Erik met Christine in the garden, a red rose in his hand and a most anxious expression on his face. He watched her approach. The hand holding the rose drooped farther down the closer she came. When she touched his chest with her fingertips she felt the flower fall to the grass, unheeded. He stared at her unmoving; his eyes wide. She reached for his thoughts but found no words, only a sense a wonderment, awe and uncertainty.

"I love you," she whispered.

He nodded.

She flattened her palm to his chest; let it slip up to his shoulder, glorying in the feel of him though the thin lawn shirt. In the months since they had shared that first kiss, they'd shared so much more, including a frustrated passion and because of that, very little physical contact. Now, the night before their wedding, all Christine could think of was what the next day would bring. A breeze brushed between them and she drew closer.

"Tomorrow, my love." She pressed closer, rising to her toes and he bent to meet her. "Tomorrow," she murmured against his lips.

She drowned in the need that possessed her. Too soon, he pulled away. "Are you certain?"

She stopped, mid-attempt at another kiss. "Erik! What a thing to ask!"

He gave no excuse or explanation, merely met her eyes. Taking her left hand in his right, he raised it to his face.

"If you choose me, you choose this." Under her soft palm the familiar ridges burned like a question and she answered with a kiss to the disfigured skin.

"I choose this, Erik. I would not have you any other way."

At that he smiled and swept her into his arms, returning her kiss with a fervor that both excited and drained her. _Tomorrow. Tomorrow._

"I will love you forever," He whispered against her temple. "With my last breath, with my last thought, with every last morsel of passion the good Lord grants me, I will love you."

She closed her eyes and felt him sway as he burrowed into her hair. "You are my dream, my Angel, my queen. I will honor you with my life. I love you."

She slipped her hands around his neck, under his collar, across muscles that rippled as she caressed them. When she feared that their small store of control had once again depleted itself, he pulled away from her kisses and held her in a tight embrace. After a moment he led her to a bench overlooking the rose bushes, seeing to her comfort with cushions and a small blanket.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow._

In the last of the evening's light she saw a bit of red nestled almost invisible in the grass. "Your rose."

"I dropped it." He rescued it and handed it to her.

"I once dropped a precious rose." She brought it to her lips. Its petals cooled her swollen lips. "Oh, Erik."

He knelt at her feet and peered up at her. "Christine, my love—"

"I didn't know then how much you love me."

"No. I didn't know then how to tell you. I suspect I am still lacking in the finer—"

She laughed. "You tell me constantly—in your music, your embraces and romantic gestures. You love me and I will never doubt you."

Much of his anxiety left his face. He rose to sit beside her. She watched the fluid movements with a catch in her throat, certain that while his self-control might remain iron-bound that night, hers did not.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow._

I I I I I

The next day a wedding Mass, another Communion, Veronique's longed-for ball, the ride in the coach, all melded into mélange of impressions that became memories of moments about which Christine was never sure thereafter she had lived. Now, she and Erik ate at a busy inn and later climbed the steps to a small but clean room.

Christine looked at the place which would encompass her first night as a wife—first night as half of a whole. A plain bedstead with a worn but clean comforter spread over it gave her pause. Erik caught the direction of her gaze and smiled, meeting her confusion and pink cheeks with his delight. He strode to the heavy window coverings and drew them aside, tying them to hold them open. The last of the day's light bathed him in gold and Christine's heart outpaced her breath.

_We have no more need to wait._

He met her in the center of the room and drew his finger along her jaw. She turned, catching his hand against her cheek and bringing his palm to her mouth. She kissed the softness and felt his pulse quicken. _Now we have forever._

The glorious radiance bathed them both and she felt such a joy that she wanted to cry. Erik took her in his arms. With his kissed hand, he traced a gentle path from the small of her back to her shoulders, urging her to reach up to return his caress.

A melody that had played all evening in the edges of her thoughts now blossomed with words—familiar words.

Who is this man I love?

Who is this man who takes my heart with him;

strides between heaven and earth,

who sings with the angels while he dances with me?

"My song!" She laughed, enchanted. "Erik, I had forgotten it, but you must have found the bit of paper I scratched it out on."

"I did." His kisses feathered her jaw and she turned, anxious to deepen them. "I will teach you. . . ." His words trailed off into passion but after a moment he resumed, ". . . who I am."

"I am anxious to learn." She slipped her hand under his shirt, allowed herself room to press her longing into the taut skin. She felt his intake of breath and gloried in his pleasure. Once again his lips covered hers.

"Is this real?" he asked against her mouth. "Are you my wife in truth?"

"You know I am." Christine wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. His lips left droplets of desire burning into her skin.

"I have waited so long—"

"Too long—"

"And now we have a lifetime of love. An eternity—"

His fingers worked at her fastenings and she allowed him access, until her outer dress fell away. Her muslin shift proved no obstacle to Erik's hands and she edged her hands under his shirt.

He groaned. "Christine—"

"We've no need of restraint now, my Angel."

His smile rivaled the light. "As well we have no need to hurry this."

"_I_ have a need."

His deep chuckle answered her and soothed her. "As do I, but I choose to make this consummation as perfect as I am able. I will spend my lifetime telling you I love you, and when I am an old man I will not have finished."

She shivered as his touch made promises to each longing part of her. He began an exploration of her and emboldened, she commenced her discovery of him. His hands and eyes learned her secrets, his lips worshiped her skin. Christine marveled in the perfection of his body, until finally with a feral growl he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

"I love you, my Angel, and now, I prove it."


	20. Chapter 20

Once you have started seeing the beauty of life,  
ugliness starts disappearing.  
If you start looking at life with joy,  
sadness starts disappearing.  
You cannot have heaven and hell together,  
you can have only one.  
It is your choice.

Osho

Chapter Twenty

_March 1919_

Nearly two years had passed since Christine's death and still he lifted his head now and then to wait, to catch the sound of her voice. She visited his dreams and he longed for her, and in her absence, longed for the dreams.

He had placed his heart within Christine's keeping and when she died, he thought he had died as well—not physically, but all that was good and loving and light within him had perished. His busy children repaid him for his loving care of their mother, as well as of them, but more than a year passed before he began to question the validity of his new beliefs; began to question the wisdom of the locks on the music room's door; and the wisdom of living out the rest of what had already been a long and healthy life in abject grief.

His children devised countless diversions to tempt him but little interested him beyond what reminded him of his lost Angel—a song written for her, a kiss feathered on his marred brow. The children and grandchildren missed her as much but they hadn't known her as he had—young and uncertain and yet so pure, beautiful and newly in love. More and more often as he sat at his new piano he played the songs he had written for her, or composed new arias that must wait for heaven for her to hear them.

He missed her so and longed for her and trusted that soon his God would bring him home, that he might sing to her of his love once again. And only when he admitted that while he no longer had Christine to live for, he had all of heaven to live toward, did the music in his mind begin to play once again.

And he began to hear Christine sing songs she'd never learned. Her sweet voice rang as pure and as strong as it had when she'd been a child. He knew she heard him, then, that she remained with him, that the connection they'd always enjoyed had not broken. He heard her only when he was alone, until one fateful music lesson.

On a Thursday afternoon Erik stretched stiff muscles and did what he could to limber his fingers. No longer able to play the sweeping pieces he loved, he still composed and, now, he would teach. In his student, a boy of eight, he'd discovered uncommon genius. He reflected with joy on this child—his daughter's son—so aptly named Erik.

The boy arrived on time, his mother with him. She brought into the old music room the scent of the wind and rain and as she leaned to kiss his cheek he took in the scent. She laughed as he breathed deeply of the fresh air.

"You're becoming a recluse again, Papa."

He laughed. "You have no idea," he said, and in truth; he'd told his children little of his past. He might write it down for them, he thought. The task would occupy him, and bring Christine to ethereal life, and leave his legacy. But his music would be his legacy even if they never knew the truth.

"Young Erik is full of vim this afternoon. I have an appointment and will come by suppertime to retrieve him, but don't let him tire you. He will do fine in the care of a footman."

"He does not tire me." He glanced at the boy, standing with his head bent, a picture of submission—an outright lie. Erik's heart caught as the boy raised his head and he saw the gleam in his eyes. This child looked like his mother—like his grandmother—like his beloved Christine. The world reminded Erik of his Christine.

His daughter hugged the child, admonished him to obey and was gone.

"So." Erik studied Young Erik. "Have you practiced?"

"More than even you told me to." As he glanced toward the piano, the child came to life. "I have learnt Grand Maman's song by heart. Do you want me to play it for you?"

Erik managed to say, "Of course," before he had to close his eyes on the tears.

"I'll play it then and before I work you'll give me tea."

Despite the tears, Erik chuckled. He and his grandson had more in common than music. "It's too early for tea."

"But I'm hungry and I can't concentrate if I'm hungry." The child sidled between Erik's knees, twisting into a loose embrace.

Erik stroked the boy's shoulder. He'd lived countless years without human touch, but Christine had taught him to accept it. Now, even a child's careless show of feeling fed his soul. Each time this child came, Erik swore he would not starve himself of human contact again, only to forget his vow once his grandson left him to his empty home.

"I suppose you can't. You play Christine's song for me and I'll have Troyes to bring you a light meal."

"And after my lesson we'll have tea." Young Erik beamed at his own brilliance. "Don't forget."

"I never forget." But Erik meant Christine. He closed his eyes and wondered if she would come that day—perhaps after Young Erik had gone home with his mother.

The child played and to Erik's joy, he had added his own signature to the notes and execution, deriving even more beauty for the song written by and for the woman he wanted his grandson to remember.

Erik could barely contain his love on watching this child, so much like himself and yet, so different—his namesake would accomplish so much more than he ever had. Would he love as much? Each of them had or would experience a life comprised of both blessing and curse—and both had known great love. Erik would like to keep this boy close, protected, cherished, but consoled himself knowing how many others loved him. As a child he wouldn't know the pain of rejection and so perhaps as an adult would weather it. Perhaps he would find his own Christine. Erik prayed he would.

As Troyes brought in a tray, Erik called, "Here is your before-lesson tea, then." He poured tea for both and watched as Young Erik took to himself the single plate piled with fruit, bread and cheese. He sat back to enjoy the child's enjoyment of his food.

"Last night," Young Erik began in the confessional tone he often used, "Papa took us to Monsieur Simon's concert, and after, we visited him and took him to supper. I will play like that some day. Millions of people will come to hear me."

"They will."

"Monsieur Simon eats more than Cyprien. More even than me! And he asked me to tell you he would be by to see you within the week."

Erik nodded his thanks for the message.

"Don't forget, Grandpapa. He said you taught him as you teach me, and he told me many stories. He said he was just my age the first time you rescued him. He said that growing up he loved you more than any other person in the world and only resented Grand Maman now and then—a little. He said it's very bad for your music if you are jealous."

"Yes, it is." Erik swallowed a last bit of cold tea and set his cup down, reflecting on the lengths his jealousy had taken him—would take him even now, should the chance arise. "Love composes with great beauty."

Young Erik continued to consume the contents of his plate with alarming speed and determination. "And after, Maman spoke with him about her uncle. Your brother."

Erik's brother. He closed his eyes as his heart constricted, the knife of regret twisting against a blade of sorrow. His brother. He knew Raoul still lived; his agent had instructions to keep Erik apprised of his actions and needs.

". . .because the opera house is to auction off everything," Young Erik finished, gaining Erik's attention.

"And Raoul will come to Paris for that?"

The boy nodded and swallowed a small portion of a huge bite. "Maman has made certain. She would very much like to meet her uncle but she said she would wait on you."

His eyes pierced Erik's soul and the old man spent a few moments wondering. His brother—here in Paris—within reach—where he had sworn never to come. Erik wondered if Raoul had tracked his movements as Erik had his—if Raoul knew he still lived while Christine did not. But he must at least suspect Christine's demise—she had written to him several times a year, but for the last half-year of her life, when she had been so ill. Since their marriage, Erik had never attempted to contact his brother, and hoped Raoul had some way to gain information.

Before he sat at the long piano bench, Young Erik stopped at one of the many music boxes arrayed on a shelf. His fingers walked between various flights of fancy until he came to a box crafted in the figure of a monkey. "Can you still make it play?" He nudged the monkey paw with its cymbal, but it remained silent. "Maman says the music box isn't broken, but your heart."

No—his heart had not broken when his Angel died, but disintegrated, disappeared. And yet, this small child held such power over him; he might even possess the power to make Erik come alive again. Perhaps because he wore Christine's face, or perhaps because his questions rivaled young Simon's, or perhaps—

"Will you make it play for me?"

"Perhaps, but after your lesson."

"And tea."

Erik grinned at his rapacious grandson. "And tea."

"With cake."

"With cake, now? Young master, you are very demanding!"

Young Erik twinkled at his grandfather, and seated himself at the piano. "Yes. But it's good, isn't it? Because Maman says I am just like you."

Erik laughed.

Even while he instructed his grandson, Erik planned. He would need the help of his old friend, Cecile. She had remained a constant in Erik's life and even now, as they approached the ends of their journeys, she willingly offered any bit of help he needed.

While he sat next to Young Erik on the bench, placing the boy's fingers just as he had placed Simon's so long ago, and feeling some of the vigor of spirit, if not of body, that he'd once enjoyed, he heard her. He lifted his head and let her voice captivate him. He lost all sense of place and company as he listened.

Her song praised God, praised His light, and soared to the limits of Erik's endurance. When she finished he returned to awareness, sure Young Erik must have wandered away in boredom. But the child leaned against his side, as rapt as his grandfather.

"Grand Maman Christine sings with the angels now," Young Erik said, and after that, Erik knew he would never have to hide her gifts to him, nor her presence, and instead, he would work to share her music as she had shared his.

She must have remembered his unassailable love, for she never questioned. Instead she asked only one thing. _Raoul is in need of the Light. As you came to the Light only when he promised fealty, so you must bring him toward it now. His lost soul has tempted the abyss far too long and now he is not far from death. Bring him home, my love. Teach him he can still secure right passage for his soul._

I I I I I

He stood in the cemetery, waiting for Raoul to notice the rose and the ring. He saw when Raoul did, and tensed. His brother lifted his head, looked about, and his gaze came to rest on Erik. Raoul nodded. Satisfied, Erik slipped into the bowels of the cemetery, certain now of his next move.

I I I I I

Raoul had taken rooms in one of the newer hotels. Erik sent his card up and a few minutes later a footman met him to escort him to an opulent, if empty, sitting room. Erik took a moment to look around. Raoul's fortunes had never suffered, whatever else he had endured, and for that, Erik was glad. He had wrested enough from his brother.

The nurse pushed the wheelchair into the room and for the first time in more than forty years, Erik studied his brother—his enemy, his rival. He had not weathered well his life and Erik's heart twisted in sympathy. He was older by far, and yet, he felt he must be the healthier of the two.

The nurse left without a word, and the men studied each other. After a long moment, Raoul stirred. "My manners—please, Erik, sit down. Would you like tea?"

"I am in need of nothing." But that was a lie. He needed this man's friendship, if nothing more.

"I was sorry to hear of the loss of your wife."

Erik nodded, accepting Raoul's condolences and feeling something more behind them. But softly—he must go softly. He did not know this man, though he ached to.

"I—I am sure you miss her very much."

"More than I would miss my own breath."

A long silence filled with longing separated them. "As did I."

Erik sighed. "You need not have missed her so much as that. She wanted to see you."

Raoul looked away, his head unsteady in its turn. "I could not have endured that."

"But you read her letters."

Raoul whipped round to stare, more than startled. "How do you know?" he whispered.

"My music box. You would not have bought it for her if you didn't know what it meant to her."

Raoul relaxed and nodded. "Those letters, then—she told you what she wrote?"

"She read them to me. We kept nothing from each other."

Again pain laced the other man's expression. "I kept them all. When they stopped coming I knew—I didn't need the notice in the papers nor word from—others. I knew."

Erik leaned closer. "Christine loved you, Raoul. Perhaps not in the way you would have liked, but she did love you."

"Not enough." Raoul's trembling increased. "Do you know what our father had to do to make you acceptable in society?"

"No." Erik leaned over the veined hands he held taut on his knees. "But I know what our Father did to make me acceptable in heaven."

For long moments all the answer Erik received were the tears trickling down Raoul's worn cheeks.

"Raoul, why did you never marry?"

"Even had you died, your widow would not have had me."

"Another, then."

"There was no other."

"Nor for me."

In silence they commiserated the loss of Christine, Erik in thanksgiving that he had been the victor of her love. If he had not, he would have died long ago, and missed so much.

"Erik—" Raoul's voice trembled. "Did Christine—do you think she could have forgiven me?"

"Raoul. You read her letters."

Raoul shook his head at Erik's censure. "That was the written word. A person can write lies—"

"She never lied."

"Did she forgive me, then? I need to know."

Erik watched the need in his brother's face and at last acknowledged the wisdom of coming. Raoul needed so much, and he needed this most of all. And yet, Erik struggled. Even now, after all these years, his own arrogance could destroy all he wished to accomplish—all Christine wished for. Odd that the very man Erik had depended on to show him the Light now seemed so blind to it. And who was he—the Phantom—to teach Raoul of Christ and sacrifice? His faith must be a glorious paradox of God—one of many—to humble His people. _Humble me, O God; I cannot do Your work as I am._

On a deep breath he said, "She could no more withhold forgiveness than God."

Bitterness tinged Raoul's voice. "I don't know that God has forgiven me."

"Have you asked?"

Raoul sighed. "No. I never asked that of God."

"Nor of me. However, we both forgave you, Christine and I, long ago. Before we married."

Tears dribbled down the old man's weak cheeks. "Why have you come now?"

"Do you remember your promise to me? The one Christine wanted you to keep?"

Raoul closed his eyes. "Say the word," he whispered. "Say the word, and I will follow you."

"I say the word."

"No." Raoul held up his hand, warding off Erik's invitation. "It's too late."

"Never. You must."

"I have spent my life hating you, denying you. Denying God for having the gall to forgive you and love you."

"All the more reason for you to see that now is the time for you to follow."

"I can't—"

"God longs for your heart, Raoul. Give Him your heart." He watched as the younger man's shoulders shook. This was what Christine wanted. Erik knew a moment's joy that again he could offer to his Angel her heart's desire.

The nurse came to stand behind Raoul's chair and Erik waved her away. She retreated a few feet, but watched her patient with great care.

Oblivious to her presence, Raoul reached for Erik's hand. Erik clasped his brother, his heart full. "If you can forgive me—"

"I have."

"Perhaps He can."

"He will, Raoul. And this is what Christine wanted."

_Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, died January 15th, 1920._

_ Erik, Comte de Chagny, died March 29th, 1923._

The music, though, the music will never die.

The End


End file.
